


The Plotbunny Graveyard

by MagicaDraconia16



Category: Charmed (TV), Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Original Work, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe, Creature Fic, F/M, Gen, M/M, wing!fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-12 16:30:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9080455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicaDraconia16/pseuds/MagicaDraconia16
Summary: As title suggests, a place for all the fics where my Muse was incredibly enthusiastic - and then the idea died a very quick death. Various fandoms, some stand-alone, some crossover. Who knows, some may even get revived . . . eventually.





	1. Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crack!Viking!Harry Potter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An idea that came about through a conversation with a friend. It originally started out talking about wand woods, then moved to wand wood ships, and then . . . this happened

“Ye be a wizard, Harry!” boomed the overly large man. 

“I be a what?” Harry of the Potters gasped, gaping up at the man who had just kicked in the door of their longhouse. Even for a Viking, the man was unbelievably tall and wide. He couldn’t even stand up straight – he’d had to walk to their fire hearth on his knees. 

“Ye be a wizard, chosen of the gods,” the man repeated. He appeared to be beaming, although it was a bit hard to tell through the wild curls of his beard. 

“N-no, he isn’t chosen,” his mother-sister, Petunia, gasped, clutching the fur bedcover to her chest in alarm. “We tried our best to make him unworthy . . .” 

“Ye did WHAT?!” the man bellowed. In his shock and anger, he forgot himself, and leapt to his feet. There was an almighty crash, and Harry ducked away from the dust and straw that fell from the newly created hole in the longhouse ceiling. There came the sound of muttering from high above, and to the accompaniment of tearing sounds, and another shower of dust and debris, the stranger tore himself free from the ceiling and sank back down to his knees. “Nothing ye could do would make Harry of the Potters unworthy,” he said, sternly, waving a large finger in the face of Harry’s mother-sister. 

“What is the oaf rambling on about, Pet?” Vernon, husband to Harry’s mother-sister, eyed his wife. “Ye told me your kin died when their longboat capsized.” 

“Longboat capsized?!” The large man leapt to his feet again, and a second hole joined the first. At this rate, there wasn’t going to be any ceiling left on their longhouse at all. Again, the man sank to his knees, although he did look a bit as though he’d had too much mead this time. “How dare ye?” he slurred, glaring squint-eyed at Petunia. “As if . . . as if the Potters would succumb to a longboat accident!” 

“Well, I wasn’t going to go around telling everybody that my sister was a chosen of the gods,” Petunia spat back – literally. The giant man flinched back from her saliva.


	2. Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In response to the "Fate Worse Than Death" challenge by ROSSELLA1 over at Potions and Snitches. 
> 
> "Snape survives Nagini's bite, but is laid up in the Hospital Wing for a while. Harry, meaning to help his savior out, makes sure the whole school knows that Snape was really a good guy. He leaves out the part about Lily, of course, but the whole being forced to do crimes for the greater good, having to kill his father/mentor figure, doing everything in his power to protect the students, etc. is fair game. Soon, Snape is the most popular teacher in the school. The girls (and even some of the guys) have a major crush because of the whole tragic hero angle. The whole student body wants to thank him for doing all he could to save them, despite them clearly hating him at the time. Meanwhile, Snape and Harry have things they need to talk about, but they just can't because there are so many visitors and well-wishers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of the italic stuff is from (or tweaked from) chapter 32, "The Elder Wand" of Deathly Hallows.

_Black storm clouds gathering._

_Darkness._

_The raspy slither of a large snake across the unsanded wooden floor._

Where was he? 

_“I regret what must happen.”_

What had happened? 

_“While you live, the Elder Wand can never be mine.”_

Except that wasn’t right . . . the Elder Wand was _Dumbledore’s_ , not his . . . 

_“I must master the Wand.”_

There was only one way to truly master someone else’s wand, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. For the previous owner, at least. 

_A long, drawn-out hissing sound, that slowly resolved itself into one single word that slithered into his ear and circled his brain._

_“Kill.”_

_Sharp, unbearable, unceasing agony. A sharp scream that tapered off into a wet-sounding gurgle. A gush of liquid. Weakness. The struggle to draw air into lungs that didn’t want to inflate._

_Green eyes, staring into his own. Luminous green, wide with shock and horror._

_The knowledge that had to be passed on._

_Those damnable green eyes . . ._

Slowly, he came to the realisation that something wasn’t right. He had breathed what he thought was his last, taking the vision of those eyes into the darkness with him. 

So why wasn’t he dead? 

It was possible that he _was_ dead, but he hurt too much for that to be a serious thought. He could feel something stiff wrapped tightly around his neck, making it hard to swallow, and the air rasped through his throat as though it carried miniscule pieces of glass inside it. 

He was also fairly certain that dizziness and light-headedness weren’t usually associated with the idea of an afterlife, even one where eternal punishment awaited. 

He tried to lift a hand up to feel his neck, but his arm didn’t make it any further than an inch off the surface he was lying on – a bed? – before beginning to tremble uncontrollably and then collapsing back down. A second attempt gained him nothing but muscle tremors. 

“Madam Pomfrey! He’s awake!” a male voice called from somewhere very close beside him. It sounded terribly familiar, but he couldn’t concentrate well enough to place it. 

There was a clamour of voices somewhere off to the left, then the sound of the medi-witch bustling over. “Out, all of you!” she said, sharply. “He needs to rest. Out!” And then, amidst the chorus of protests, “And that includes you, too. Out, Mr Potter!” 

_Potter . . ._

That settled it. He was well and truly dead. Obviously he hadn’t earned a pleasant afterlife if he was stuck with Potter. It was a shame about Poppy, though. He wondered how she’d died . . . 

“Severus? Severus, can you hear me?” She sounded a lot closer now, and he thought he detected a faint tremor in her voice. He struggled to raise his eyelids, to show her he was awake and aware. It was a simple action, but it still took a large effort to lift them even halfway. “Oh, Severus!” Poppy exclaimed, her voice filled with tears. 

Blearily, he blinked at the medi-witch hovering over him. Her wand was waved over him, in complex patterns so fast that the wand seemed to blur. Trying to focus on it left him even more dizzy. Poppy smiled at him, even as a solitary tear ran down her cheek. 

“You’re in the Hospital Wing, Severus,” she informed him. “And alive.” 

Alive? He wasn’t dead? But Potter had been next to him – Poppy had called him by name! Oh, Merlin, that meant Potter wasn’t dead either. Which meant he’d failed in his task. He’d failed Albus . . . and Lily. _Oh, Lily . . ._ Then it struck him – if Potter wasn’t dead, that meant the Dark Lord wasn’t dead, either. And he was expecting the Elder Wand to work perfectly for him, having supposedly killed its last master, even though he really hadn’t. Oh, the Dark Lord was going to be furious. That did not bode well for anybody. 

“Severus? Severus!” Poppy gently laid a hand on his shoulder, attracting his wandering attention. “It’s all _right_ , Severus. Harry won! It’s over.” 

Over? Potter had won? How could Potter have won anything when he was still standing and breathing? Albus had been very specific – Potter must die so the Dark Lord would become vulnerable and unable to return to life ever again once someone actually managed to kill him. But Potter wasn’t dead . . . 

Yet again, his thoughts were shaken out of their continuous circling by Poppy patting his shoulder. 

“I know it’s a surprise,” she said. “This time even you have to admit that Harry is a fine young wizard, Severus. He’s saved us all – again. But there’ll be time for that later.” A vial with a clear liquid appeared in his line of vision. “Here, Severus. It’s one of yours. Rest, now.” 

Taking a quick sniff to verify that it was indeed one of his own potions, he drank it in one go and sank into the darkness where sleep beckoned him, praying that when he awoke again, the Dark Lord would be gone, and he would be rightfully dead.

* * *

“Madam Pomfrey, how is he?” Harry Potter asked anxiously as soon as the medi-witch allowed him back into the Hospital Wing. He hurried over to the bed where the Potions Master lay motionless, looking even more lifeless than he had when Harry had first rescued him from the Shrieking Shack. 

“He will be just fine, Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey said calmly, patting him on the shoulder reassuringly. “With a lot of rest, some gentle exercise, and a twice-daily dose of Blood Replenishers and anti-venom, he will be back to his old self in no time.” 

“Oh, good,” Harry said on a sigh, dropping gracelessly into the chair beside the bed that he’d occupied for the last fortnight. Perhaps now he could let go of the anxiety that had been plaguing him. Now that he knew what Snape had done for him – and everyone else – he didn’t want the man to die without a chance to at least say thank you. 

The image of him returning to what he thought was a lifeless body in the Shrieking Shack still regularly haunted his dreams, and sometimes even his waking moments. It had been hours after the final battle before Harry had remembered Snape and gone back to fetch him. He had crouched beside Snape for a moment, mourning the loss of what could have been, when he had almost been driven into a heart attack by the sight of small, blood-tinged bubbles coming from the torn windpipe where Nagini had savaged him. 

If spontaneous Apparation had been possible on Hogwarts grounds, Harry was sure he would have done it then. And most likely would have splinched them both. Instead, he had all but given himself whiplash trying to levitate and move the Potions Master quickly enough before he really did bleed out. And he’d immobilised the Whomping Willow so forcefully that it hadn’t moved for three days. 

A faint creak drew Harry’s attention to the doors of the Hospital Wing. Ron and Hermione were peering around for any sign of Madam Pomfrey. Harry waved them over. 

“How is he?” Hermione asked, before she’d even sat down anywhere. Ron rolled his eyes behind her back, good-naturedly, and went to collect two chairs. 

“He woke up,” Harry responded, grinning at his friends. “Madam Pomfrey says he’ll be okay.” 

“Oh, good!” Hermione said, staring at Snape as though she’d never seen him before, before groping blindly behind her for the chair that Ron had brought over. Harry supposed it would take awhile before people got used to thinking of Snape as one of the good guys. All those present at the battle now knew that Snape had been a spy, and were all amazed at what the man had been through. 

“You should see the crowd outside,” Ron said to Harry. 

“What crowd? Outside the castle?” 

“Nah, outside the Hospital Wing,” Ron corrected, one corner of his mouth turning up in a sardonic grin. “It’s almost all girls, and they all want a glimpse of Snape.” 

“It’s not ALL girls, Ron,” Hermione said absently. She reached over to gently pat Snape’s hand. 

“Near enough, though,” Ron said. He eyed Hermione until she sat back in her chair, and then turned back to Harry. “There’s a reporter from the _Daily Prophet_ out there, too. Don’t worry, it’s not Skeeter,” he said, holding up a calming hand even as Harry made to bolt to his feet. Harry made a noise of disgust and dropped back into his seat. 

“Even so, I’m still not talking to them,” he grumbled, folding his arms across his chest. 

“You’ll have to talk to someone, mate,” Ron pointed out. “The whole world will want to know what happened.” Harry scowled at him, and opened his mouth to protest. 

“Talk to _The Quibbler_ ,” Hermione said before he could get a word out, finally managing to tear her eyes away from Snape. “I’m sure Luna’s dad would be more than willing to help after what he tried to do to us.” 

“Ugh, _fine_!” Harry grudgingly agreed. “I’ll talk to Luna. But later.” 

“Later,” Ron and Hermione both agreed, and the Trio turned back to watching the sleeping Potions Master.

* * *

The next morning, despite his determination to keep watch over Snape, Harry was still taken by surprise when Snape _did_ wake up. 

He had been looking for Madam Pomfrey when the rasp of a dry throat clearing made Harry jump so badly that he almost fell out of his chair, and he turned his head so quickly to look at Snape that he was surprised it didn’t just fall off. 

“Professor!” he exclaimed. Snape was blinking blearily and levering himself upright. Harry reached for the glass of water that had been placed on the bedside table and held it up so that Snape could drink from it. After a few sips, Snape drew his head back away from the glass to indicate he’d had enough. 

“Potter,” he croaked in a hoarse voice that sounded painful just listening to it. Harry winced in sympathy. “What happened? You’re supposed to be dead. Didn’t I pass that message on?” 

“Oh, you did,” Harry answered with a rueful grin. “And I did. Uh, die, that is.” Snape gave him a confused look. “Yeah, I know, idiotic dunderhead, standing and breathing does not equal death.” He airily waved a hand to dismiss that. Snape narrowed his eyes at Harry, who had a feeling that Snape would have growled at him if his throat had allowed him to. “I died, and then I came back.” Snape waved a hand in a circular motion, urging him to get on with it. “Do you know what horcruxes are?” 

Snape’s eyes went out of focus as he thought, and then his face went completely still. Harry nodded, knowing the ex-spy had to be aghast at learning what Voldemort had done. “He didn’t just make one, though,” he carried on explaining. “He made _six_ horcruxes.” This time, Snape’s eyes went wide with horror. “But when he killed my parents and went after me, he accidentally made _another_ one. In me.” 

Snape sat as bolt upright as he could manage, obviously trying to decide whether he should be summoning his wand right about now. 

“It’s okay, Professor, it’s gone now,” Harry soothed. “Didn’t Dumbledore ever say any of this to you?” 

“No,” Snape got out through gritted teeth. “He was very secretive about the whole thing.” 

“I know the feeling,” Harry muttered to himself, then raised his voice. “When Voldemort killed me, he killed the piece of his soul that he’d put there, too. I spoke to Dumbledore while I was dead – don’t ask,” he said, as Snape opened his mouth to do just that. “And he gave me the choice of coming back or going on.” 

“And the noble, heroic Gryffindor came back,” Snape sneered. 

“Uh, something like that,” Harry said, cautiously. 

“So the Dark Lord is really gone,” Snape said quietly, more to himself than to Harry. He turned his left arm to examine it closely. The Dark Mark was barely visible, as though the ink had faded. 

“He’s really gone,” Harry confirmed. “Hit with his own spell – again.” Snape looked up and raised an eyebrow. Harry grinned at him. “He got it wrong. He thought you had to _kill_ the previous owner to gain mastery over the Elder Wand, but all you had to do was _defeat_ the previous master, and Draco disarmed Dumbledore on the Astronomy Tower that night. Then I disarmed Draco when they were holding us at Malfoy Manor . . .” 

“Which made you its new master,” Snape finished. A brief flash of annoyance ran across his face before it went blank. Harry thought he understood – Snape had been attacked and almost killed for what amounted to no reason at all. The legend of the wand had never said anything about killing to own the wand, but typically Voldemort had assumed the most violent course of action was the right one. 

Harry found himself wanting to say something – anything – but he didn’t know what else Snape could possible want to hear. He doubted Snape cared about how many Gryffindors had survived or not, and Harry didn’t know what had happened to most of the Slytherins or Death Eaters. He knew Mrs Weasley had killed Bellatrix and that the Malfoys had run and Crabbe was dead, but that was it. 

Finally, he remembered the memories that Snape had given to him. 

“I suppose you want your memories back?” he asked. The sound of his own voice was startlingly loud. Snape looked blankly at him. Harry fished the vial out of his robe pockets and put it down gently on the bedside cabinet. 

Snape stared at it for a moment, then nodded once at Harry. Taking that as the only thanks he’d ever get for them, Harry nodded back, made his excuses, and left.

* * *

 _“I regret what must happen.”_

No, not again! 

_“I must master the Wand.”_

That was over – done with! 

_“While you live, the Wand will never be mine.”_

But Potter had . . . Poppy had said . . . 

_“I regret . . .”_

Had they lied to him? 

_More sibilants than one word had any right to. “Kill.”_

He jerked himself awake, and almost fell off the surface he was lying on. A different surface this time, firmer than the beds in the Hospital Wing. Had the Dark Lord come back? But then . . . why would the Dark Lord leave him alive? 

Slowly, the fog lifted from his mind. He was in his quarters. Yes, that was right – he’d discharged himself from the Hospital Wing. All right, maybe crept out was more correct, but he would never admit to such a cowardly act – even to himself. It wasn’t as if Poppy really needed to keep an eye on him; he was perfectly capable of knowing when to take his own potions, thank you very much. He could _brew_ better potions than she had in stock right now. Merlin, even Potter or _Longbottom_ could brew better potions . . . 

He paused, one foot on the floor, searching for a slipper, the other leg still hidden under the bedclothes. Given how many melted or blown up cauldrons he’d had to replace, maybe not Longbottom. 

Sliding his other foot into its slipper, he slowly stood, allowing the room time to stop spinning around him. Once it stabilised, he pulled on his dressing gown and made his oh-so-slow way into his living room. _Really_ , he mentally tutted to himself, _after four days of Blood Replenishers, I should be better off than this._ Just who had brewed the potions for Poppy anyway? Whoever they were, they had done a singularly poor job of it. 

He eventually reached his kitchen table, and sank down into a chair with an inaudible sigh of relief. Tapping his wand on the table, his usual breakfast and paper were promptly delivered. He reached for the teapot. A good strong cup of tea would do just as well as a Blood Replenisher at this rate. 

Unfortunately, the tea did him little good when, upon unfolding the _Daily Prophet_ and discovering an extract from _The Quibbler_ with a headline three inches tall, he promptly spat it back out onto the offending newspaper and half the table underneath. 

If his vocal cords had been intact and up to it, he would have been roaring like an injured dragon. 

_“The Boy Who Lived tells all about the Spy Who Loved.”_

He was going to kill Potter, he really was.

* * *

Harry was so used to people stopping their conversations to stare at him and then resuming in hurried whispers – so prevalent throughout his school years and grown worse since the final battle – that he didn’t pay any attention when he walked into the Great Hall and it happened again. 

He did notice, however, when Hermione firmly buried her nose in her copy of the newspaper and refused to look at him. 

“All right,” he sighed. “What are they saying this time?” 

“Um, well . . .” Hermione peered worriedly at him. “They’ve printed bits from The Quibbler, only . . .” 

“Only what?” Harry asked when she paused. When she still didn’t answer, Harry looked around and realised just how many people there were absorbed in reading the paper, occasionally looking up to give him speculative glances. 

Before he could press Hermione anymore, the doors to the Great Hall banged open, and a beyond-livid Snape was moving as fast as he could towards Harry. 

There was a stunned silence, and then what seemed like the entire hall burst into awed whispers. Looking at the fury on Snape’s face, Harry gulped, and wondered whether he should run. Perhaps now would be a good time to see whether he could actually Apparate through Hogwarts’ wards or not. 

“Potter,” Snape hissed as soon as he got close enough. “I want a word with you.” Taking a firm grip in the neck of Harry’s outer robe, he used it to propel Harry out of the Hall in front of him, whilst using Harry as a surreptitious walking stick to prop himself up. 

“Um, Professor . . .” Harry started, but Snape just tightened his grip. Harry subsided. Snape would be all too willing to tell him what he’d done wrong soon enough. 

As they passed an empty classroom not far from the Hall, Snape suddenly tugged Harry sideways into it. Stumbling through the doorway, Harry all but fell into a chair. Righting himself, he looked up to see Snape looming over him, scowling ferociously. Harry gulped. This did not look good . . . 

“Just what is this . . . _drivel_ , Potter?” Snape hissed, thrusting a newspaper into Harry’s face. Harry felt himself going cross-eyed trying to read it that close, and drew his head back until he could focus on the headline. 

Oh . . . he was going to kill Skeeter! 

_Unless, of course, Snape kills me first._

“Umm, it’s my interview with Luna’s father?” he tried, cringing in his seat as Snape’s glare intensified. “I’m sorry, Professor!” he burst out. “I swear, the interview in the _Quibbler_ wasn’t like that! It’s just Rita Skeeter again . . .” Harry’s voice trailed off as he realised that his explanation wasn’t mollifying Snape in any way whatsoever. 

“Regardless of just who went overboard first,” Snape growled, “what gave you the impression that I wanted my private life splashed across the front page? Please, I’d like to know so that I can ensure _not to do that again in the future!_ ” 

Harry shrank down in his chair. “I was just trying to tell people what happened,” he squeaked. 

Snape straightened to his full height and glared down his nose at Harry. “Then why, pray tell, is _your_ life not covering the front page of the newspaper?” he asked, his tone icy. 

“Because you spied, and all I had to do was die?” Harry attempted. 

Snape folded his arms. “Try again, Mr Potter,” he said. 

“I can’t,” Harry sighed. “Look, Professor, all I did was tell the truth. That’s it. And hey, you should be happy – the papers aren’t making _me_ famous anymore,” he pointed out. 

“That didn’t mean that _I_ wanted the fame, you imbecile!” Snape shrieked – or tried to. His voice gave out halfway through his last word, and he broke down in a harsh fit of coughing. Harry hastily summoned a large glass of water and leapt up to pound Snape on the back. 

If the glare he got was any indication, Snape didn’t appreciate his ‘help’. In fact, Harry counted himself lucky he wasn’t hexed for it. As Snape recovered enough to draw in a lungful of air without choking on it, Harry slowly seated himself again. 

“Look, Professor, I’m sorry about all this,” he said. “But the interview that Luna’s dad printed was much less . . .” he floundered for a moment, searching for the right word, “uh, flashy. I guess once Skeeter got hold of it, she did a bit of snooping, or just made stuff up, to make it more . . . hero-like and romantic.” 

Snape grimaced. “It was neither hero-like, nor romantic,” he said, disgustedly. “You shall write to the _Prophet_ and demand a retraction from Miss Skeeter at once.” 

“Ah . . .” Harry bit his lip. “Professor, you do realise that Skeeter won’t cooperate with me? She’s not liked me much ever since Hermione discovered she was an unregistered animagus and blackmailed her.” 

Snape slowly raised an incredulous eyebrow at him. “You mean the Boy-Who-Lived actually found someone who won’t say yes to him?” he asked, his tone edging towards a sneer. 

Harry laughed, although he wasn’t that amused. “ _You_ don’t say yes to me, either,” he pointed out. 

“So what type of animagus is Miss Skeeter?” Snape asked. 

“She’s a . . . beetle.” Harry sat bolt upright in the chair as a thought occurred to him. “She could have been there when I spoke with Mr Lovegood! That was how she got most of her articles before my fourth year – she’d be somewhere nearby in beetle form, listening in.” 

“What an idea,” Snape said. “We could have made _her_ a spy.” Harry frowned at him in puzzlement. Surely that would have been a bad thing? Anything she found out would only have gone straight on the . . . _oh_. 

“Well, I guess Fudge wouldn’t have been able to hide Voldemort’s return then,” Harry said, grinning at the thought. 

“Regardless, you will write to the _Prophet_ and say very strongly how disappointed you are that they published such . . . embellishments. I, naturally, shall do the same,” Snape said. He lowered himself to sit on a desk beside the door. 

“Are you okay, Professor?” Harry asked, concern swirling inside him. “Should I help you—?” 

“No!” Snape barked, jerking back from the hand Harry had stretched out towards him and almost falling off the desk. “I shall be fine. Just leave me be!” He waved a hand irritably at the doorway, and Harry felt himself ushered that way. 

Reluctantly, he left the classroom to find Ron and Hermione, resolving to find a house-elf to see to Professor Snape on his way.

* * *

This was torture. 

It was madness. Insanity. 

How was he supposed to teach, or eat in the Great Hall, or even just walk the halls with . . . _this_? 

He had teenage girls following him . . . and _sighing_ at him, for Merlin’s sake! 

And then there were the boys, staring longingly after him. 

Obviously, he’d missed someone placing the entire castle under a _Confundus_ charm. 

Shaking his head, he actually had to look both ways using a periscope charm before setting foot outside his chambers. Although he didn’t know what the point was in patrolling. Every time he tried to take points, or give detentions, the students would just sigh or smile happily and thank him. He couldn’t even get the new first years to burst into tears by yelling at them. It was very disappointing. 

_Although there was that pair of Hufflepuffs . . ._ His lips turned up into an evil grin. The two little first years had been so in awe of him at their first potions lesson that they had actually fainted. He’d taken a lot of points for that, especially since young Mr Jaymor had taken out his neighbour’s cauldron and splashed everyone nearby with the weed wilting potion they’d been brewing. It had been the highlight of his day, and he’d had to put the memory into his Pensieve so it wouldn’t lose any of its glory, he’d replayed the moment that much. 

Admittedly, it had actually improved concentration in his classes. For theoretical lessons, anyway. Everyone was so focused on him, he suspected they could recite his lessons verbatim for at least an hour afterwards. And the threat of detention – with McGonagall or worse, Filch – soon took care of the practical sessions, too. It seemed he had become the favourite professor to attend detentions with. 

A snort showed his opinion of _that_. Unfortunately, it was apparently louder than he meant for it to be, for shortly thereafter, he was accosted by a small first-year. “Professor Snape?” 

Small, honey-coloured brown hair, eyes that were the deep blue of the Great Lake, blue and gold striped tie, raven crest on her robes . . . a Ravenclaw. He hadn’t had them for lessons yet, so he had no idea of the girl’s name. He detested that – if he had to take points or assign a detention, it was always better to do so whilst spitting out the culprit’s name as if it were the foulest thing he’d ever tasted. 

“Yes?” he drawled, raising an eyebrow at the girl. 

“Please, sir, I know how good you are with potions,” she stammered, a healthy blush colouring her cheeks. “And I was wondering if you could help me with the uses of moonstone—” 

He held up a hand, halting her babbling, then used his other hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Silly twit – she’d obviously heard from the Hufflepuffs what his first homework assignment was. Did she really think he was so _mindless_ as to discuss that with her? Before her very first lesson, no less! 

“Miss . . .?” 

“Robardt, sir,” she piped, enthusiastically. 

Robardt . . . hadn’t there been an Auror of that name? He shook his head, dismissing his wandering thoughts. “Miss Robardt,” he continued, his voice growling his displeasure. “No matter how much you may try and flatter me, I will _not_ fall for it! Ravenclaw haven’t even had their first lesson with me, and yet you believe that you can garner extracurricular _help_ from me? You are a _Ravenclaw_ , Miss Robardt, and are therefore perfectly accustomed to doing your OWN research! Good day, Miss Robardt, and 20 points from Ravenclaw for both trying to cheat, and for delaying a professor for no good reason.” 

With that, he stalked past the idiotic dunderhead, his robes swirling behind him. Unfortunately, the dressing-down and the loss of points didn’t appear to have fazed the girl at all. He could hear her sighing dreamily as he stalked down the corridor. 

Great Circe and Merlin, what was _wrong_ with everyone in this castle?! 

“Professor!” 

_And speaking of wrong . . ._ “Whatever it is, _NO_ , Mr Potter!” 

Even as he could see Potter opening his mouth again, a small flood of students interposed themselves between Potter and himself. 

“Professor . . .” “. . . just wanted to say . . .” “. . . can you help? . . .” “. . . so _brave_. . .” “. . . so ROMANTIC . . .” “. . . really, Professor, I just . . .” 

Growling at the sheer _noise_ they all made – and completely unable to decipher one sentence from another, they all ran together so fast – he gave an automatic blanket punishment of 50 points from each house, and stalked off towards the staff room, hoping for a bit of peace and quiet.

* * *

Harry sighed in disappointment as he watched the group of students move away, twittering like a giant flock of birds. Scorch it, he was never going to get to talk to the professor at this rate. 

All he wanted to do was thank the Professor for protecting him, even when Harry – and almost everybody else – believed the professor was trying to kill him. 

He was also hoping to talk about his mother. He’d heard lots of things about his father, but nobody ever mentioned Lily Potter apart from to say that Harry had her eyes. Snape had been his mother’s friend, surely he had plenty of stories he could share about her? 

Harry made his way down the corridor, scuffing his feet. He hadn’t been able to get anywhere near the Professor . . . and not for lack of trying! If it wasn’t hordes of awe-struck students mobbing Professor Snape, it was regretful, repentant staff, or nosy reporters looking for a follow-up story to the _Daily Prophet_ ’s article, or flock upon flock of owls and other post birds bringing fan mail. The professor had taken to warding his quarters against the birds, resulting in piles of letters three feet deep in the corridor outside his rooms. It was beginning to create something of an obstacle course. 

Harry suddenly brightened. That was it! He could offer to help Professor Snape with all the mail – that would certainly give him a chance to talk to the professor, and surely he could coax _one_ story out of the man in that time. 

Whistling cheerfully, Harry quickened his pace, determined to find Ron and Hermione so they could help him plan. He had to get his offer to help phrased _just right_.

* * *

Of course, there was a flaw in the plan, which none of them – not even Hermione – had thought of. Professor Snape wasn’t actually _dealing_ with any of his mail in the first place, which was what had led to this plan for Harry to help him, so whilst Snape reluctantly accepted their help, he wasn’t actually anywhere nearby whilst they were sorting mail piles. 

“Which kind of defeats the object of the entire plan,” Harry complained on the third night. They were trudging their way back up to Gryffindor Tower, tired and sticky after several envelopes containing disgusting substances had exploded all over them. They hadn’t been able to decide if people were sending bubotuber pus as a curse against a Death Eater (or a traitor), or whether some love-sick idiot had sent it as a potion ingredient.


	3. Sherlock x Dragonriders of Pern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was mainly created as a sort-of reaction to the passing of a fanfic author who was in the midst of a HPxPern story, and my muse was on a Sherlock kick at the time.

_“Millennia in the future, and far away at the edge of a distant galaxy, humanoid colonists found a planet named Pern. Disdaining the technology they could command and looking for a simpler way of life, tired of war, whole families crossed space in a deep sleep. Pern seemed perfect for their needs, and the colonists, led by Admiral Paul Benden (pg. 247) and Emily Boll (pg. 528), made landfall and began to explore their new world._

_“Unbeknownst to the colonists, an errant planet orbited Pern, passing overhead every two hundred years. At the far end of its orbit, this planet, named by the colonists as the Red Planet, passed through the Oort Cloud, and brought debris from that cloud back into Pern’s system when it returned._

_“The colonists had not long been on Pern when the Red Planet passed them by, bringing with it the organism that would come to be known as Thread. Thread was a mindless organism that devoured every organic thing it touched. Caught completely unprepared, the colonists panicked, as people and animals died._

_“The only protection came from small creatures that had been dubbed ‘fire-lizards’. These tiny winged creatures breathed fire, or ate the Thread. Desperate, Kitty Ping, a geneticist who had studied under the Eridanis, the only human to ever do so, worked on the fire-lizard genes to create bigger, better, creatures._

_“The creatures, large enough to carry a full-grown human when in flight, were called ‘dragons’, after the Old Earth tales of times gone by. These dragons bonded telepathically at birth with one human – known as Impressing – and when old enough, were given firestone, a igneous rock that mixed with gases in their second stomach, and allowed them to breathe fire._

_“Able to instantaneously teleport, an ability known as ‘passing through_ Between _’, the dragons and their riders, in strict hierarchal groups that came to be known as ‘Weyrs’, took to the skies to flame Thread when it fell._

_“Several millennia after Pern was colonised, the dragons and their riders discovered the remnants of the basic, minor technology the colonists had brought with them to Pern. With the help of the Artificial Intelligence Voice-Address System, or AIVAS, the dragonriders used the engines of the colony ships to blow the Red Planet off-course, thereby eradicating the threat of Thread on Pern forever._

_“Unfortunately, nobody had considered what the consequences of a threat-free existence would do to their population. Within generations, both humanoid and dragon numbers had exploded. They quickly reached critical level, and within ten generations after Thread was removed, Pern was unable to support them. With every square mile of land already over-utilised, the humanoid population began to starve._

_“Many of them blamed the dragons and their riders, claiming that too many resources were being used on what were essentially over-grown beasts of burden. Less and less candidates for new-born dragons were found, and with no-one for them to ‘Impress’, the young dragons committed suicide by going Between forever._

_“Eventually, the leaders of the Weyrs knew that this state of affairs could not continue. They called a meeting, and decided that some of the younger dragons must travel elsewhere to find new partners. Due to the long distance they would likely have to travel through the sense-depriving, freezing Between, a few older riders volunteered to potentially end their lives to see them through._

_“With a group made up almost entirely of brown and bronze dragons, along with two golden queens, the New Colonists hoped for the best, and jumped through space and time—”_

Sherlock Holmes’ absorption in the book was interrupted by a bone-rattling trumpeting from just outside his windows. It was accompanied by a mind-bending yell of, _**SHERLOCK!**_ that was inside his head, rather than outside it. 

Shaking his head and grimacing, Sherlock put his book aside and stepped towards what had once been a wall of windows, but now included a set of French patio doors. Mrs Hudson, the landlady, hadn’t been sure about having them put in, but once she had been visited by a dragon, she capitulated very quickly. Pulling the doors open, Sherlock was almost blown over by a gust of heated air. 

_**Sherlock, look!**_ the same mind-voice exclaimed, excitedly. 

“For goodness’ sake, there’s no need for you to announce yourself quite so loudly!” Sherlock complained, patting the muzzle of the large bronze dragon that towered above him, yet still had its feet firmly on the street a floor below. 

“He insisted that our first flight be to come and see you,” the dragon’s rider said, grinning over his companion’s shoulder at Sherlock. 

Sherlock raised a sceptical eyebrow. “First flight, really?” he said, doubtfully. 

The rider clapped his dragon on the shoulder. “Okay, first flight out of the Weyr,” he corrected himself. 

_**Gregori, the Hatching!**_ the dragon interrupted. He raised his head and trumpeted another blast to the sky. Sherlock winced. 

“One day, Silanth, you _will_ get my name right,” the rider said, shaking his head. He looked back at Sherlock. “The latest clutch is about to Hatch, and you’re invited.” 

Sherlock frowned at the rider. “Really, Gregory,” he said. “I haven’t been to any of the previous ones; why would I come to this one?” 

“Because,” Gregory Lestrade said, holding out a gloved hand to Sherlock, “the queen dragonets in the Minsk and Vienna Hatchings both refused Impression. They went _Between_ almost as soon as they were out of the egg.” 

“And what does that have to do with me?” asked Sherlock, folding his arms over his chest. 

“The Weyrleaders are worried that someone is influencing the dragonets, or doing something to them. They want you to come and investigate.” 

“On the day of a Hatching?” Sherlock scoffed. “Why didn’t they call someone in before now?” 

“Because the Queen wouldn’t let them,” Greg informed him, and his tone told Sherlock that Lestrade didn’t mean the _human_ Queen. 

Silanth turned his giant head and nudged Sherlock. It was gentle, as dragon nudges go, but the bronze wedge-shaped head was almost as tall as Sherlock himself, so Sherlock found himself back-pedalling to stay upright. _**We must go,**_ the dragon said, urgently. _**You are the one who can talk to the dragonets, convince them to stay until they Impress. But we must go now! The Hatching has begun!**_

Grumbling, Sherlock turned to fetch the fleece-lined jacket and gloves he’d been given. If he tried refusing again, Silanth was liable to just snatch him out of the flat. If a dragon wanted you to move, you were moved, whether you wanted to or not. 

Clambering over the balcony railing, Lestrade gave him a hand to scramble up Silanth’s shoulder and into place just behind Lestrade, then passed the harness straps back so that Sherlock could fasten himself in. Silanth turned his head to watch this process. He was incredibly safety-conscious for a dragon, although Sherlock didn’t know if that was a trait of all dragons, or whether it was just Silanth’s personality. 

“Ready?” Lestrade barely waited for Sherlock’s answering nod. “Silanth, let’s go!” he ordered, swinging his fist up in the signal to lift off. 

Sherlock felt Silanth’s hindquarters bunch as he sank back on them, and then Sherlock’s head was flung back as they rocketed upwards into the sky. Lestrade let out a whoop of joy, but the wind rushing past Sherlock’s ears almost drowned him out. 

Once they levelled out, Silanth hovered overhead, allowing Sherlock time to look at London stretched out beneath them. 

“It looks so peaceful from up here,” he shouted to Lestrade. “You’d never think that the dregs of humanity live down there.” 

“Considering we live down there, too,” Lestrade shouted back, “what does that say about us?” He patted Silanth on the shoulder. “Okay, my friend; let’s head back to the Weyr.” 

The bronze dragon gave a hum of agreement, and Sherlock braced himself. Going _Between_ was never a pleasant experience, and even a short trip that lasted barely seconds had given him a deep respect for the riders that had attempted to jump who-knew-how-long. Of the fifteen riders that had accompanied the juvenile dragons, only four had emerged out of _Between_ with them. 

A few seconds later, they emerged out of the blackness into the sunshine above Leckwith Weyr. 

The Weyr had originally been Cardiff City Football Stadium, but the original group of dragons had materialised in the middle of the pitch – thankfully not in the middle of a game – and had promptly declared it theirs. No one had wanted to argue, given that even as juveniles drained from a long journey _Between_ , the dragons were still as large as a double-decker bus. 

With a few minor adjustments, such as the lowering and brightening of the floodlights, the dragons had declared their new home a resounding success, and had proven it with an unexpected mating flight. 

The flight had not produced any eggs, unprepared as everyone was, but it had at least given the surrounding areas an idea of what to expect when the next one happened. 

Now, all of the floodlights were turned up as bright as they would go, although it was hard to see that in the sun. Dragons ringed the arena, humming in welcome at a pitch that vibrated through the humans’ bones. Humans were flooding into the Weyr, eager to see the Hatching and hopeful that they might have a chance to Impress. 

Silanth banked to his left as another dragon emerged from _Between_ , and glided down towards the north-most corner, where two large dragons were standing, overseeing the whole procedure. 

_**Goloranth has arrived with Mycroft,**_ Silanth announced. He lowered his large head to peer at the ground below. 

“Anderson?” Sherlock yelled to him, instantly annoyed. “ _Anderson_ brought Mycroft here? For God’s sake, now we’ll never hear the end of it!” 

Puzzled, the bronze curved his neck around to peer upwards at Sherlock. _**He is not mentioning it now, or now, or now—**_

“It’s just a figure of speech, Silanth,” Lestrade interrupted, laughing. “Come on, Allareth and Jobroth are waiting for us.” 

Still rumbling in bemusement, Silanth angled himself and landed neatly not far from the gold and bronze dragons whose riders were the leaders of this Weyr. Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft, was nimbly dismounting from the shoulder of another bronze dragon. He prudently ducked as the dragon took off again, then sauntered over to where Sherlock and Lestrade were dismounting from Silanth. 

“An auspicious day, brother mine,” he greeted Sherlock, nodding briefly at Lestrade. “I’m told that the dragons have high hopes for this Hatching. Three queen eggs in the clutch. Let us hope that all three of them Impress.” 

“What happens if they don’t?” Sherlock asked. 

“It would be disastrous!” Mycroft said, shaking his head. “They require the queens to keep the bloodlines fresh, and to carry on the population.” 

Sherlock frowned. “But the greens are females, too,” he pointed out. “Since we don’t have firestone for them to chew here, aren’t they fertile?” 

“Too ruddy fertile, sometimes,” Lestrade said from behind Sherlock. “Problem is, they lay smaller clutches than the queens do, and they’re mostly greens and blues, with the occasional brown thrown in. Those hatchlings are usually smaller than the dragonets laid by queens. Plus, the greens are just plain awful mothers. They clutch their eggs any-old-where, and then abandon them.” 

“I see.” Sherlock caught sight of someone approaching. He nodded over Mycroft’s shoulder. “I believe that is your escort, Mycroft,” he said. 

The man who halted beside Mycroft was short and stocky, and had the bearing of an ex-military man. He was also, judging by the leather gloves and jacket he wore, a dragonrider. He nodded in greeting to all three of them. “Mycroft Holmes? The Weyrleaders asked me to escort you to where they’ll be watching the Hatching.” 

“Of course.” Mycroft nodded back, and gestured for him to lead the way. “I will see you later, Sherlock. Do try not to cause any trouble.” He strolled after the departing dragonrider, leaving Sherlock spluttering indignantly, and Lestrade trying to hide a laugh behind a fit of coughing. 

“C’mon,” said Lestrade when he eventually managed to get himself under control. “Silanth’s over there; we can stand beside him. He’s got a good view of the Hatching Grounds.” 

Muttering threats under his breath against his older brother, Sherlock followed his friend across to where the bronze dragon was settled. The humming was gaining in intensity, although it didn’t appear to be getting any louder. Lestrade excitedly pointed to where three of the eggs were beginning to rock, and another one near them had developed an inch-long crack in it. 

The first egg all but exploded, the remnants of the shell peppering the surrounding eggs. Its inhabitant, a large bronze dragonet, stumbled, before righting itself and beginning to creel. _**My rider! Where is my rider?**_ Its movements took it near to several of the potential candidates, and its head instantly swung towards one boy in particular. _**My rider! Mine!**_ it carolled, joyfully, its cries turning from pitiful to a triumphant crooning. _**My name is Elarth!**_ it said, and then hiccupped. _**I am hungry!**_ it added, butting the young boy in the chest. 

The boy clutched the damp bronze head to stay upright, then turned a beaming face up to the stands. “His name is Elarth!” he cried, and cheers erupted. 

Sherlock lost track of individual dragonets after that. He was able to hear all dragons, the first person on this end of their jump to do so, and so many dragonets were hatching at once that their cries overlapped. 

“Look!” Lestrade nudged him in the ribs with an elbow. “The first queen egg is hatching!” 

The egg had begun gently rocking, but almost as soon as Sherlock turned his attention to it, it stopped. A shiver appeared to run through the egg, and then it abruptly cracked very neatly lengthways, the two halves falling away from the gold dragonet inside. 

Framed by her shell, she stood still for a few moments, as if inviting the audience to admire her. Then she slowly turned her head from one side to the other, her faceted gaze examining all of the candidates. 

“Please Impress, please Impress, please Impress,” Lestrade was muttering under his breath. 

_**Where is my rider?**_ the little queen demanded, imperiously. Judging from the start all the surrounding riders gave, Sherlock wasn’t the only one who’d heard her. Intrigued, Sherlock turned his full attention to her. From what he’d been able to discover – and had experienced himself – most dragons only spoke to their riders, or their partner’s rider. Otherwise, all communication between riders went through their dragons in a way that resembled the game of Chinese Whispers. 

Occasionally, Sherlock had been told, back on Pern, once every few generations, there would come a person who was able to hear _all_ dragons. Much to Sherlock’s chagrin, those had all been women, and almost without fail they had become a Weyrwoman. 

This was the first time, though, that a dragon had spoken to _all_ riders. 

The little queen’s head swung around to where Lestrade and Sherlock were standing. With a sinewy grace that the other dragonets didn’t have – as they stumbled around trying to manoeuvre wings and tail – the golden dragonet stepped daintily out of her shell and began to walk towards them. 

The girls who had been brought in as candidates for the queen dragons scurried to get in front of her, in the hopes of attracting her attention, but she brushed past them. After the disaster of the first hatching, all candidates had been trained, and so none of the girls got caught by the queen’s talons or knocked over and flattened or trampled by her weight. 

The buzz of wondering conversation reached a crescendo as the golden dragonet stopped in front of Lestrade and Sherlock and tilted her head to look at them. 

_**There you are,**_ she said, with great satisfaction. Lestrade gaped at her, and Sherlock hoped he wouldn’t faint. _**My name is Carlotta, and you are my rider,**_ she continued, to Sherlock. _**You may feed me now.**_

* * *

The Weyrleaders had all but stampeded across the grounds towards them, with Mycroft trailing in their wake. Sherlock had only met them once before, but he hadn’t liked them then, and he liked them even less now. The Weyrleader was a skinny, pompous man whose manner was a great deal like Mycroft’s, except it was a lot less effective as it always seemed to hold a whining undertone. The Weyrwoman was exceedingly bossy, but very rigid in her adherence to rules and regulations. Lestrade had said that she reminded him of Dolores Umbridge, but Sherlock had no idea who that was. 

“It simply isn’t possible,” she was saying now, her voice shrill enough to make everyone within hearing distance cringe. “It simply _is not possible_! A Queen dragon _cannot_ be Impressed by a male rider! It’s against tradition!” 

“The green dragons are Impressed by male riders, aren’t they?” Sherlock pointed out. “And doesn’t the dragons’ history include at least two occasions where a female rider Impressed a blue?” 

“Who a green or blue Impresses doesn’t matter,” trumpeted the Weyrleader, in a surprisingly nasal voice. “But the Queen _must_ Impress a female! To do otherwise goes against all laws of nature!” 

Carlotta growled at the man, and he hastily skipped backwards. _**I am not unnatural!**_ the golden dragonet said, firmly. _**The dragon chooses the rider; draconic choice is**_ **never** _**wrong. Sherlock is my rider; I am his dragon. There is no more to say on the matter.**_ She turned back to Sherlock, sweeping her tail round so that the Weyrleaders had to leap over it, or be toppled off their feet. _**I am still hungry,**_ she reminded him. _**You must feed me immediately.**_

“Sherlock, think about what you’re doing,” Mycroft murmured, quietly. 

“I have, brother,” Sherlock replied. “And Carlotta has spoken.” 

“If you insist,” the Weyrwoman began, scowling at him, “if you _insist_ on this . . . this . . . _travesty_ of an Impression, then you and your . . .” she made a face as though she’d swallowed a lemon “— _dragon_ must go elsewhere. I will not have troublemakers in my Weyr!” Sherlock had the strong impression that the Weyrwoman would have stomped her foot after this pronouncement, if it wouldn’t have ruined her dignity. 

_**I would not remain here, in any case,**_ Carlotta said, dismissively. _**This Weyr would not be a good fit for me. Silanth and I will find our own Weyr.**_

“What?” Sherlock asked, just as Lestrade exclaimed, “Hey, don’t bring me into it!” 

Carlotta tilted her golden head to eye her new rider. _**Of course Silanth will accompany me,**_ she said, in tones that strongly suggested she thought Sherlock was an idiot. _**Where else would my consort be except by my side?**_

“ _Consort_?!” Lestrade and Sherlock yelped in unison, then they looked at each other. 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Pardon me,” he said, amusement warming his words. “I thought mating flights dictated which bronze partnered a queen?” 

Carlotta turned to study him. _**That may be true, for insecure and jealous queens who need a whole Wing of bronzes and browns chasing them in their mating flight,**_ she told him, disdainfully. _**I, however, know my worth, and know precisely who my equal is.**_ Lestrade, Sherlock and Mycroft all raised their eyebrows at her. _**Silanth is good at things I am not, just as I will be good at things**_ **he** _**is not,**_ she said, petulantly. _**That is why we will make a good team. Now if we have finished with this conversation, I am**_ **still** _**hungry! Someone must feed me!**_ Her look at Sherlock made it clear just who the ‘someone’ was. 

At that moment, a cracking noise that sounded like a gunshot drew everyone’s attention, even the Weyrwoman, who had been spluttering over the ‘insecure and jealous queens’ remark. One of the other queen eggs was beginning to hatch. 

“The queen! She must Impress!” the Weyrleader gasped, and ran back across the sands to chivvy the candidates closer. 

Carlotta butted at Sherlock with her head. _**Her rider is not here,**_ the dragonet said, in a low voice. _**You must convince her to stay until her rider arrives.**_

“And how, pray tell, am I supposed to do that?” Sherlock asked, the acerbic-ness of his usual tone vying with the affection his new bond with the dragonet had caused. He found himself running a hand over the still-damp golden hide. 

“How do you know her rider isn’t here?” Lestrade asked, curiously. “And how long would it be until the rider _does_ get here?” 

_**I observe,**_ was all the queen would say. _**Jelianth’s rider is far, far away. It will take too long for her to come here unless you convince Jelianth to stay.**_

“Can’t you explain that to her?” Mycroft asked, already reaching into his suit pocket for his phone. “Or couldn’t she just . . . go _Between_ to her rider?” 

“For goodness’ sake, Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped at his older brother. “You’ve been in _Between_! Do you really think a newborn dragon would survive it?” 

Mycroft sighed. “No. My apologies,” he said to Carlotta. “Is there anything you can tell me about . . . Jelianth, was it? . . . about her rider, to facilitate us in finding her that much sooner?” 

_**Here.**_

Suddenly, Sherlock _felt_ the presence of another in his brain. He’d quickly gotten used to dragons talking to him mentally, but this was different. Not only because Carlotta was _his_ dragon – _HIS_! He still couldn’t believe it – but because she was utilising connections in his brain that he hadn’t thought anyone could reach unless they did an autopsy on him. Images and impressions flashed past him, and Sherlock staggered a step as he assimilated the knowledge. Lestrade grabbed for his shoulder, whilst Carlotta balanced him from the front. 

“Ohh, she, she, she’s . . .” he stammered, trying to sort everything out into something that he could convey verbally. “She’s . . . Asian,” he finally managed, closing his eyes to concentrate better. “Tall, black hair, pale skin, eyes that are . . . so hazel they’re almost red. She lives with her parents – no, her grandparents . . . _no_ , a grandparent and an uncle. They live on the border between China and Japan; somewhere remote. There’s a small village about twenty miles away from them, but the girl isn’t welcomed there, because of her ‘blood eyes’.” Sherlock opened his own eyes to find Lestrade and Mycroft gaping at him. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he demanded, waving a hand impatiently. “Go and find her!” 

Still blinking in surprise, Mycroft turned away to speak urgently on his phone. Lestrade was still gaping at him. 

_**Come,**_ Carlotta said, angling herself behind Sherlock so she could nudge the two men forward together. _**We must be close enough for Jelianth to hear you, Sherlock. We will also be closer to the food, so you may feed me, Gregori.**_

“Uh, you are aware it’s the _rider_ who usually feeds their dragon?” Lestrade said, as he and Sherlock stumbled back towards the Hatching Grounds. “And my name isn’t Gregori.” 

_**It is close enough,**_ replied Carlotta, her mental tones amused. 

“Is she . . .? Your dragon is _smirking_ at me!” Lestrade said accusingly to Sherlock. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lestrade,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes. They were approaching the Hatching Grounds again, and the hatching queen egg was all but in pieces now. The Weyrleaders were hovering anxiously, cooing nonsense that was apparently supposed to be soothing, but in actuality just wound the candidates’ nerves up even further. 

With a last effort, the egg fell completely to pieces, and a wobbly golden dragonet raised her head to look around her. _**My rider! Where is my rider?**_ she creeled, piteously. _**I want my rider!**_ Looking around, the dragonet’s eyes began to whirl in shades of red, showing her growing distress. _**Nobody wants me!**_ she wailed. 

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Sherlock found himself repeating, stepping forward so the dragonet’s attention focused on him. 

_**You are not my rider,**_ the new queen said, sounding very confused. She sagged, miserably. _**I have no rider.**_

“Of course you have a rider,” snapped Sherlock. He hated maudlin people, and apparently that extended to dragons, too. “She just wasn’t expecting you to arrive so soon, so it will take a bit longer for her to get here.” 

_**No. If I had a rider, they would be here, waiting for me,**_ the dragonet protested. 

“For goodness’ sake, Jelianth! Your rider is _on her way_!” Sherlock said, forcefully. “She has to come from a very long way away, but she will be very upset if she arrives and you have not waited for her.” 

The golden dragon, who had bunched her hindquarters, ready to spring enough to enable her to get _Between_ , paused, and tilted her head at Sherlock. _**You know my name,**_ she said, and Sherlock couldn’t tell whether she was pleased by this or not. _**How do you know my name? You are not my rider!**_

_**No, he is mine,**_ Carlotta interrupted, proudly, nudging her head into Sherlock’s side. _**I know your name, just as you should know mine. I also know that your rider is coming.**_

_**You lie! I have no rider!**_ the dragonet hissed. Abruptly, all her defiance disappeared, and she wilted again. _**I have no one to Impress!**_ she wailed. 

As if on cue, the Weyrleader hissed, in a tone that was obviously supposed to be unheard by anyone but himself, or possibly the Weyrwoman, but was unfortunately amplified by the Weyr’s natural acoustics, “Why isn’t she Impressing?!” 

The newly-hatched queen dragonet wailed piteously, and then threw herself down to writhe on the ground in agony, threatening the safety of the eggs that remained nearby. 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” groaned Sherlock, as Lestrade buried his face in his hands, and Carlotta growled menacingly at the tactless Weyrleader. 

_**Let me go!**_ Jelianth begged, looking upside down at Sherlock and Carlotta, who both peered down their noses at her. _**If I have no one to Impress, there is no point to me.**_

“Are all dragons this melodramatic?” Sherlock asked Lestrade, impatiently. 

Lestrade rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “No, not usually,” he said. “But then again, maybe this is why dragons Impress. After all, the un-Impressed aren’t exactly the most stable dragons, either.” 

“I thought that was just because of their long jump _Between_ ,” said Sherlock, his interest piqued. “Are you implying that it’s because they have no riders? Have they _tried_ to Impress anyone since they’ve been here? Or—” 

_**Ah-hem.**_ Carlotta pointedly cleared her throat, and her rider looked down at her, sheepishly. _**Jelianth?**_ she reminded him.


	4. Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Animagus!Harry Potter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one came about because I saw a video on FB of a cat, lying on its back, reaching out playfully to an owl (I think you can find it, or a close enough version, on youtube).

Albus Dumbledore was not having a good day. In between Barty Crouch and Ludo Bagman popping in to see how the Tournament preparations were getting on, the Howlers from outraged parents that a fourteen-year-old boy was being allowed to participate, the Howlers from outraged parents that the Boy-Who-Lived was being paraded through such a frivolous thing instead of out hunting down Voldemort, the Howlers from outraged parents who wanted to know why _their_ fourteen-year-old-or-younger child couldn’t participate, the professors crying unfair and foul play, the professors demanding that the rules be made to apply to _that boy_ as well or he be expelled, and the usual day-to-day running of the school, well, Albus was ready for bed! 

Unfortunately, it appeared that wasn’t to be, as Poppy’s silver patronus floated through his office wall and requested his presence in the Hospital Wing. Sighing, Albus made his way there. 

“What seems to . . . be . . . the problem?” His voice trailed off as he took in the scene. Desperately pressed back into a corner was a small black kitten, its ears pressed back flat against its head, bright green eyes wide with panic. 

In front of the kitten was a fairly large black barn owl, its wings mantled up to make itself look even bigger. It was hissing and giving the odd screech at the kitten. 

At the sound of Albus’ voice, the owl’s head spun round, and it gave a long screech that sounded rather like . . . relief. 

“Poppy?” Albus looked at the medi-witch, hoping she could give him an answer. 

“Some kind of wild magic gone awry,” she informed him, looking vaguely annoyed. “I’m afraid they’ll have to wait for it to wear off.” 

There was an enraged shriek from the owl, and it hopped ungainly towards Albus and Poppy. 

“I’m sorry, Severus, but I can’t help you,” Poppy said, sternly, glaring down at the owl. She hastily skipped backwards as the owl lunged forward to peck at her. “Well!” she exclaimed, indignantly. “See if I ever treat you again, Severus Snape!” 

Albus looked down at his Potions Master and sighed. This was all he needed. And looking at the kitten, who had finally decided it was safe enough to come out of the corner, he could guess which errant student it was. _Wonderful_ , he groused mentally to himself. _How in Merlin’s name is a KITTEN supposed to compete in the Tri-Wizard Tournament?_ He was currently negotiating with the merpeople in the Lake, and somehow, he doubted the kitten would enjoy being tossed into the middle of it. 

With another sigh, Albus bent down and allowed the owl to sidle onto his hand. He straightened up again, his back creaking in protest as he did so, and placed the large bird onto the rail at the foot of the nearest bed. 

“Well, my boy, you certainly could have picked a better time for this.” The owl hooted and clicked its beak. Albus was quite glad he didn’t speak owl – no doubt whatever Severus was saying was not meant for polite company. 

Poppy had retreated down the ward to retrieve her chart on the transfigured pair. As Albus turned to join her, there was a yowl of outrage from the kitten. Tutting under his breath, the Headmaster turned back, only to be brought up short by the sight that greeted him. He began chuckling as the kitten gazed up at him with disgust. Right in the middle of its head was a pile of white-and-black goo. 

The owl perched above it turned around and hooted smugly.

* * *

Ten minutes later found them back in Albus’ office. Minerva McGonagall had been called in, as Harry’s Head of House and as a cat animagus, and was holding the little kitten firmly in her arms. His fur had been cleaned, and was still sticking up in wet clumps. He was keeping a wary eye on the owl that was Professor Snape, despite the fact that the owl was across the room, sharing Fawkes’ perch. 

Fawkes was very interested in this new friend, and kept trying to preen his wing feathers for him. The owl kept pecking at the overly-friendly phoenix and side-stepping this, until he suddenly ran out of perch, and fell off with an aggrieved squawk. Flapping his wings madly, he managed to avoid landing on the floor, and soared across the room to land on the back of one of the squishy armchairs that Albus kept for welcome visitors. There he settled himself, ruffling his feathers huffily, and digging his talons into the fabric of the chair, almost as though he were imagining it was Fawkes’ neck. 

_Then again_ , Albus thought, hiding a smile behind his tea cup, _maybe he is imagining it!_ Hastily clearing his throat as he caught Minerva’s eye, Albus put down his cup and focused his gaze on Harry. “Now then, perhaps you could tell Minerva what happened, Harry?” he suggested, calmly. 

The small kitten blinked up at his professor, and blinked some more as she made a soft chirruping sound at him. Curling his front paws around one of her wrists, he began a series of short meows. When he was done, he butted his head against her hand and started to purr. 

“It appears it began as a potions accident,” Minerva said, looking up at Albus. “Mr Longbottom’s cauldron exploded, and Severus and Mr Potter here were the closest to it. Severus pushed Mr Longbottom out of the way and then began to transform into his animagus form. Mr Potter apparently tripped over Mr Weasley’s bag in his attempts to move, and in his panic had a burst of accidental magic, which unfortunately collided with Severus’ transformation, changing and trapping them both.” 

The owl on the chair-back twittered, ending in a rising screech. The kitten flinched and stopped purring, attempting to bury his head against Minerva’s side. He might not fully understand just what Professor Snape was saying, but he obviously got the gist of it. 

Albus cleared his throat. “According to Poppy, it has to wear off on its own,” he informed Minerva. “That means that Severus’ classes will need to be covered while we wait.” 

“Perhaps we should hire a temporary professor?” she suggested, idly running a hand down the kitten’s back while she eyed the owl, who was ruffling his feathers irritably on the chair. 

Albus leaned back in his chair. “It would be rather a waste if it turns out that Harry and Severus revert back after just a day,” he said, and rooted around in the top drawer of his desk for his stash of lemon drops. Maybe the sugar would give him a boost and he’d be able to think of a solution. 

“Well, I suppose we can set up a rota for our existing staff,” Minerva said, doubtfully. She looked down at the small kitten in her arms, who was fighting desperately to keep its eyes open. She smiled as its head bobbed downwards again. “But perhaps first we should determine whereabouts Severus and Mr Potter will be staying in the meantime. I think someone’s ready for a nap.” 

The kitten jerked its head up again, giving a brief protesting _mew_ , and glaring at Minerva with feline indignation, before apparently remembering just who she was, and looking away again. The owl made a sound that was uncannily like a chuckle, and began preening the phoenix spit off its feathers. 

“Mm, well, I don’t suppose Poppy would appreciate having them in her infirmary,” mused Albus, “so I suppose here will do—” 

The owl froze as Fawkes gave a warm trill of approval, then, with a deafening screech and a flurry of feathers, it launched itself from the chair – leaving holes in the back of it – and aimed straight at the open window behind Albus. Albus, seeing the sharp beak and talons speeding straight at his head, prudently ducked, and felt his hair ruffle in the breeze of the passing owl. With a series of triumphant hoots, the owl darted through the window and promptly disappeared.


	5. Sherlock x Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crack!Magic!Sherlock

When Sherlock Holmes was three, a Bunsen burner that had been removed to a high shelf came floating down to his grasping little hands. His older brother, Mycroft, observed it with a resigned expression. 

“Sherlock, you’re a wizard,” he informed his precocious little brother. 

“Aren’t!” was the retort, and Sherlock toddled off to continue whatever his experiment of the day was.

* * *

When Sherlock was four, a thigh bone buried deep at the bottom of the garden wiggled its way out of the ground for him. Mummy Holmes watched this with an expression that didn’t quite conceal its resigned disgust. 

“You’re a wizard, Sherlock, darling,” she sighed. “Please leave that bone where it is; goodness knows what you’ll catch from it.” 

“Am not!” Sherlock replied, petulantly, clutching the bone to his chest. “I need it for my experiments!” And he ran off before Mummy could make him relinquish his prize.

* * *

When Sherlock was six, after storming off in a tantrum, somehow he ended up on the roof. 

His father regarded him from the ground with an air of bemusement. “You’re a wizard, Sherlock!” he shouted upwards, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Now get down from there!” 

“No such thing!” his son responded, and then his attention was caught by something hidden beside the chimney stack. “Oh, _there’s_ the dead pigeon I lost!” 

Mr Holmes buried his face in his hands.

* * *

When Sherlock was eight, the whole family gathered to try and convince him that yes, he _was_ a wizard. He looked up from the biography of Einstein he was reading to give them all one deep, pitying look, and then went back to thoroughly ignoring them.

* * *

By the time Sherlock was ten, his family was getting desperate. His Hogwarts letter would be arriving the following year, and yet Sherlock was still not convinced he was actually doing magic. He’d managed to rationalise each and every bout of accidental – and not-so-accidental – magic that he’d had. 

“Look, Sherlock!” urged Mycroft, making his tea cup dance across the table towards Sherlock. 

Sherlock gave it a dismissive glance. “Stop bouncing the table, Mycroft,” he said, and returned to the book on atoms that he was reading. 

Mycroft rolled his gaze upwards to the ceiling as his tea cup angrily sulked its way back to the saucer, kicking at the sugar bowl as it did so. 

“Sherlock, tea will be ready soon,” said Mummy, a large mixing bowl floating in the air beside her, the wooden spoon eagerly stirring the contents. 

“No, thanks, Mummy. I’m not hungry,” Sherlock replied, not even glancing up. 

Both Mummy and the wooden spoon wilted in dismay. 

“Fancy a game of chess, Sherlock?” asked his father, the chess pieces in his hand waving enthusiastically at him. 

“Boring,” pronounced Sherlock, and swept off to wherever he was doing experiments that day. 

Mr Holmes looked wistfully down at the chess set, as the pieces shouted in outrage and shook their fists at Sherlock’s back.

* * *

The arguments continued right up until they delivered Sherlock to Platform 9 and ¾ for his first day of school. He hadn’t batted an eyelash at the owl that delivered his Hogwarts letter, only commented that whoever had trained the bird had done a superb job. He barely appeared to notice when Mummy apparated him to Diagon Alley to get supplies. Apparently he thought she’d drugged him, and was cross with himself for not noticing it. 

“A medieval faire,” was his pronouncement when they were in Diagon Alley. He looked at a pair of witches walking past and sniffed haughtily. “Although they’ve got their costumes wrong,” he said. 

Mummy rolled her eyes to the heavens, asking for patience. 

Sherlock was very hard on poor old Mr Ollivander whilst they were getting him his wand. He persisted in asking questions about the properties of each wood, and what core was in the stick, and what properties did _it_ have, and how did Ollivander know they went together, and what would happen if he put _this_ core with _that_ wood, and how did the wand know which wizard or witch it was meant for, and— 

By the time a wand finally consented to choose Sherlock – entwined ironwood and dogwood, fourteen-and-a-half inches, _extremely_ inflexible, but with a fwooper bird feather as its core. Mummy raised her eyebrows at that – a small crowd had gathered, all gaping at Sherlock.


	6. Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the "Funny Story" challenge, by Ebbtide over on Potions and Snitches. 
> 
> ""You know, it's a funny story..." that bit is required in the story. Harry must be confiding in Snape. It can be voluntary or forced."

It was the crash of breaking glass that woke him out of a dead sleep. 

Severus Snape was up and on his feet, wand aimed threateningly at the door, before he even realised he was awake. It took him several more moments to realise that the noises were coming from his private lab next door. 

Hurriedly throwing on his robes, Severus strode eagerly out of his rooms and to his lab. There was only one person who would dare to break into his lab, especially at night. 

He felt the vague stickiness of locking and silencing charms, and smirked as they fell away from him. As if he’d ever be kept out of his own lab! “ _POTTER_!!” he bellowed, slamming open the lab door.

“Yes, sir?” a chorus of voices answered him. Severus stumbled to a halt, and allowed himself to gape as three identical students turned their heads at his abrupt entrance. 

“Bu – wha – ho – ?” he stammered. He blinked several times, wondering if perhaps he was still dreaming, but no. When he looked again, there were still three Harry Potters standing in front of him. 

Severus finally gathered his wits and his dignity. “Potter, what in Merlin’s name have you done now?” he hissed. 

The middle Potter – the original, Severus assumed – lowered his gaze and scuffed his toe along the floor. “Well, sir, it’s a funny story,” he said. 

Severus waited, but Potter appeared to have finished talking. Severus scowled at him. “Very well, I’m sure I’ll be heartily entertained,” he said, gesturing with his hand. “Get on with it, then.” 

“Um . . .” Potter gulped. “Well, you see . . . Trevor – that’s Neville’s toad – got away from him, so when Neville saw he was sitting on Ron’s bed, he and Ron both dived to catch Trevor . . . except somehow their wands collided with the posts on the bed, and broke, and I happened to enter the dorm at the same time . . . and got caught in the magic. Next thing I know, there’s three of me.”


	7. Charmed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A what-if AU, brought about by the fanfics I've read that bring Andy back (in one way or another). It's well known the Twice-Blessed child is the offspring of a Charmed One and a whitelight . . . but what if there were _two_ pairs of a Charmed One and their whitelighter?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, obviously, starts from the season 3 episode, "Once Upon A Time". As far as I'm aware, the little girl's surname is never given, so I just picked one out of thin air for her.

“Can you see her?” Kate Adams asked her companions, her hand hovering protectively on the lid of the music box that was sitting on the windowsill. 

Phoebe Halliwell peered intently at it then sadly shook her head, but her older sister Prue was squinting at it, tilting her head. 

“Prue?” Phoebe asked. 

“I – I don’t know,” said Prue. “I-I-I can see _something_ , but—” 

Puzzled, Phoebe watched as Prue and Kate moved as if watching something very fast darting around the room. 

“Uh, Prue?” Phoebe prodded. 

“You can’t see that? Her?” Prue hastily corrected herself. 

Phoebe strained her eyes, willing herself to see, but had to admit defeat. 

A low chittering growl caused Kate and Prue to whirl around. 

“Oh! Oh! I think I see a troll!” Prue exclaimed. 

“Don’t let them get Thistle!” cried Kate in alarm, and she lunged for the music box. 

Prue spun round. “Oh!” She waved her hand, and the little grey trolls that had been clinging to the curtain were sent flying out of the window. Another one was clinging to the doorframe, but when Prue turned to deal with that one, two more appeared in the window. 

Kate clutched the now closed music box to her chest and pressed back against Phoebe. Unable to see anything, and with no active power to help anyway, she could do nothing but hold tightly to Kate’s shoulders. 

“It’s no use; they’re too fast,” said Prue. “We need Piper to freeze them.” 

“I don’t think she was too eager to help before,” Phoebe pointed out. 

“Yeah, well – ooh! – we really need her now,” replied Prue, spinning around to fling away more trolls that were trying to surround them. “An innocent needs her.” 

“Well, we can’t take Kate to P3. Do you think we’ll be safe enough at the Manor until Piper gets home?” wondered Phoebe. 

“Your house has a lot of in-between places,” Kate piped up, sounding doubtful. 

“Yeah, but it also has a magic book,” Prue reassured her. “I’m sure we can find something that can help us until our sister gets home.” She spun again, flicking out both hands this time. “Get ready to run, okay? One . . . two . . . _three_!”

* * *

“Okay, what was so darn important that—whoa!” Piper shrieked as something caught her foot in the doorway, sending her flying into the foyer. Skidding along the polished wooden floor, she came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. 

“Piper! Are you okay?” her sisters chorused, clattering down the stairs to haul her to her feet. 

“What was that?” Piper demanded, looking back at the empty doorway. 

“That would be a troll,” said Prue. “They’re after Kate and Thistle. We came up with a way of banishing them, but we need you to freeze them.” 

“Although first we need a way for her to _see_ them,” Phoebe pointed out. 

“Uh, little grey things that like climbing?” Piper asked, pointing to the archway they were standing in. 

With yelps of alarm, the sisters leapt towards the stairs where Kate was standing. 

“Okay, how come you two can see the fairies and trolls, and I can’t?” demanded Phoebe. “That’s so totally not fair . . .” 

“We’ll figure it out later,” said Prue, waving her hand to send the trolls creeping up the stairway flying back into the foyer. “Ready to freeze ‘em, Piper?” 

“You betcha,” agreed Piper, grimly, bringing her own hands up. “Little rodents won’t know what hit them—”

* * *

“Okay,” Phoebe said, as they returned home after safely returning Kate to her frantic parents, “ _now_ can we discuss how you two managed to see the fairy and the trolls but I couldn’t?” 

“Well, Kate did say only the innocent could see them. Guess we’re just more innocent than you, Pheebs,” teased Prue, sinking onto the couch. 

Phoebe frowned. “No, no, she said _children_ could see them,” she protested, and then she gasped, her gaze darting between her sisters. 

“What?” asked Piper, warily, still standing in the front hall. 

“Is it a premonition?” Prue asked, leaning forward. “Is it Kate?” 

“Not a premonition – an epiphany,” said Phoebe, breathlessly. “Only children can see fairies – _or those carrying them_!” 

“What?” Prue and Piper exchanged confused glances, then suddenly, Piper’s eyes widened, and her hand drifted up to gently touch her stomach. 

“You think I’m – I’m pregnant?” Piper breathed. For a split second, her face lit up with joy. The next moment, she was downcast again. “What am I going to do?” she said, softly. “Leo—” 

Now it was Prue and Phoebe’s turn to exchange glances, before they converged on Piper, engulfing her in a huge hug. 

“You know,” Phoebe said, softly, into Piper’s shoulder, “ _you_ being pregnant wouldn’t have affected _Prue_.” 

“What?” Prue drew back and gave a short laugh. “No, no. No. I-I-I _cannot_ be pregnant, alright? There hasn’t been anyone in, God, _months_.” 

“Prue, you saw Thistle,” said Phoebe. 

“No, I can’t—” Prue began to deny, shaking her head, but then she froze. “Oh, God,” she murmured. 

“Prue?” Piper asked. She reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her sister’s ear. “Honey, is there something you need to tell us?” 

“When that dragon warlock killed me,” Prue said, “I saw Andy. I-I thought I was just dreaming, you know?” 

“Guess you did more than just talk, huh?” asked Piper. 

Prue looked down and fought hard against the blush that wanted to blaze across her face. “Yes,” she admitted, finally. “We did more than just talk.” 

“So now what?” Piper asked after a moment. “If Prue and I _are_ pregnant, then major changes are going to have to happen.” 

“Wow, two nieces at once!” Phoebe exclaimed. 

“Hold on, we’d better find out for sure before you start celebrating,” Prue cautioned. “Then we need to sit down and plan things out.” 

“Prue, it’s a baby! _Two_ babies! You can’t plan those,” Phoebe objected. 

Prue and Piper smiled wryly at each other. “Clearly,” Piper agreed. 

“It’s not . . . _them_ that I want to plan for,” Prue said. “This _will_ affect all of us – not least because it will mess up two-thirds of the Power of Three. Mom said she received premonitions from you, Phoebe. Who knows what will happen with me and Piper. We don’t want to find out the hard way that we’re defenceless.” 

“Especially since one baby is half-whitelighter,” added Piper. She suddenly cocked her head. “Hey, you think maybe I’ll be able to orb?” 

“If you do, don’t get used to it,” Prue reminded her. “We also need to be even more careful with the Elders. They didn’t want you and Leo getting married – this is a bit bigger than that.” 

Piper’s expression soured. “Right, ‘cause they could never just let me be _happy_ ,” she said, bitterly. 

The musical sound of a whitelighter orbing drew all three sisters’ attention to the dining area. 

To their surprise, it wasn’t someone they’d ever expected to see again. 

Andy Trudeau smiled crookedly as they gaped at him. “Surprise,” he said. 

“Andy!” Prue exclaimed. “What— Wait, you’re a _whitelighter_ now?” 

“Hmm, yeah,” he said, and lifted a hand. It was enveloped by the familiar blue-white lights they were used to seeing from Leo. “Looks that way, huh?” 

Andy suddenly became very serious. “We need to talk,” he said to Prue. 

“Uh, okay, we can—” she began, but he shook his head. 

“All of you,” he said. 

“Andy, what’s going on?” Phoebe asked. 

The former police detective turned a grave face to her. “You’re all in danger,” he said. “Terrible danger. The Elders know about your news, and they’re not happy.” 

“What?” Piper gasped. “How can they know already? Are they _spying_ on us?!” 

“There’s a prophecy,” Andy said. “Made by an apothecary centuries ago. It foretells of a powerful child, a twice-blessed child. Born of a whitelighter . . .” He paused. “. . . and a Charmed One.” 

Prue and Piper looked at each other, and Phoebe gasped. 

“Is that why witches are forbidden to date whitelighters?” she asked. 

Andy moved his shoulders in a move that wasn’t quite a shrug. “It’s one reason,” he said. 

“Hold on,” Piper interrupted. “If this twice-blessed child is half whitelighter and half Charmed One, then is it my baby, or Prue’s?” 

“No one knows,” said Andy. He suddenly grinned at Prue. “I think we threw a spanner in the works.” 

Anything Prue – or her sisters – might have said to that was cut off by the arrival of more orbs. 

“Leo!” Piper said with a gasp as her would-be fiancé emerged from them. She went to fling herself at him, but he held out a hand to stop her. 

“We don’t have much time,” he said. “The Elders are on their way down here to issue you both with an ultimatum – either you . . . give up the babies, or they’ll strip your magic, wipe your memories, and take them anyway.” 

Piper clutched at her stomach protectively. “I am _not_ letting them take my baby,” she growled. “ _Our_ baby,” she added, looking at Leo. 

Prue exchanged a steadfast look with Andy. Both were in agreement – no one would be touching their baby either. 

“Alright,” Prue began. “We need—” 

She was interrupted by Phoebe abruptly jolting. “Oh. Oh! Incoming!” the youngest Halliwell announced.


	8. Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the "Imposter at Hogwarts", "Dearth of magic", and "Captured by the Ministry" challenges, all by Jan_AQ over at Potions and Snitches. 
> 
> "Tom Riddle aka Voldemort has kidnapped either Harry or Snape and is using a means of magic to steal the identity and masquerade as the individual at Hogwarts." 
> 
> "Magic stops working suddenly at Hogwarts." 
> 
> "Severus Snape and Harry Potter have both been captured by the Ministry."

In hindsight, Harry really should have known it was a trap. 

But, at the time, he still hadn’t figured things out. So when he woke up, chained to a pipe in a bathroom, he was understandably confused. 

Looking around didn’t clear things up. The bathroom was obviously old and out-of-the-way – the floor was covered in three inches of dust. The toilets were all cracked and broken, and several of the sinks were leaking. In short, it looked like an even more run-down version of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom at Hogwarts. A figure was handcuffed to another pipe across the room, slumped over and unconscious, so Harry couldn’t tell who it was. Dark-haired and male was all he could see. 

On the counter next to one of the sinks sat a cauldron, happily bubbling away. Harry was not so happy about it, mainly because whatever was brewing stank to high heaven. He could hear it glugging and popping, and sincerely hoped he wouldn’t be made to go any closer to the cauldron than he already was. 

The figure across the room stirred and groaned. When he lifted his head, blinking blearily at his surroundings, it was Harry’s turn to groan. _Snape!_ Of all the people to be handcuffed in a bathroom with, it had to be Severus Snape. 

The ex-Headmaster tried to lift a hand to rub his temples, and was brought up short by his handcuffs. He sat staring at them for a moment, obviously wondering what on earth the metal bracelets were doing around his wrists. Then his head turned to examine the room, and his gaze fell on Harry. 

“Potter!” he exclaimed, although the tone sounded more surprised than angry. “What have you—” Snape cut himself off, but Harry was fairly certain Snape had been about to blame him for their troubles. “Where are we?” the Potions Master asked instead. 

“I have no idea,” Harry admitted, frankly. “I woke up here, same as you. Last thing I remember, I’d been called to the Ministry for a memorial ceremony for Dumbledore.” 

Snape’s brows drew together as he searched his own memories. “I was also at the Ministry,” he said, slowly. “I was picking up the license that’s necessary for some of the potion ingredients I require.” He paused, then scowled. “I came out of the licensing room, someone called my name, and then everything went black.” 

At that moment, the cauldron belched, and the disgusting smell emanating from it grew stronger. Snape’s eyes shot to it, and he paled. 

“Professor?” Harry queried. Snape obviously recognised whatever was over there. “What’s brewing in that cauldron?” 

“Polyjuice Potion,” Snape croaked, aghast. “Someone’s been brewing Polyjuice.” 

Harry’s eyes widened. “And if we’re here, captured, next to it . . .” 

Snape finished his sentence. “Someone obviously wants to imitate one or both of us.”


	9. Charmed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A what-if AU, where Piper isn't brought back to life in "All Hell Breaks Loose", and Paige gains her power instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We never are told when exactly the Cleaners were created, and I'm sure I'm not the only one who wondered, after they were introduced, why they didn't intervene when the sisters were exposed. My answer - for this, at least - is that they weren't created until _after_ that event, _because_ of that event. 
> 
> Also, they do actually say in their episode that they rewrite history . . . except, in that case, even if you ignore the further reaching consequences of wiping Wyatt from the world, the stain on Paige's blouse, the situation with her co-worker that Paige forgot, and most certainly the riot Phoebe caused (and the injuries gained) wouldn't have existed, either. Therefore, I think the most they do is erase the memory and any others attached to that particular event, rather than actually rewriting anything.

Prue Halliwell raised her face from her hands to see a bullet just inches away from her nose. Breath hitching in her throat, her heart began pounding. The bullet was frozen. The doctors had pronounced time of death on her sister, Piper, but the bullet was inarguably frozen. Prue spun around, desperate to see her sister alive again. 

She almost ran face first into a pair of men in white suits. Alarmed – since the door was still locked with the IV pole – Prue began to raise her hands. 

“We don’t mean to harm you,” said the one standing marginally in front, raising a hand of his own. 

“Who are you?” Prue demanded, her voice still hoarse with tears. Piper’s body on the bed behind the men hadn’t so much as twitched. 

“We are the Cleaners,” the spokesman said. “We have been created by both Good and Evil to protect magic.” 

Prue shook her head. “What do you want?” she asked. 

“Nothing,” the other man – Cleaner – said, harshly. “We came merely to explain.” 

“Explain _what_?” Prue all but shouted. She had absolutely no patience for riddles right now – Piper was _dead_. 

“What will happen next,” said the first Cleaner, more kindly. “We will erase the exposure of your magic – clean it away so that it never happened. No one except those who knew before will remember you are witches. Your sister will be the unfortunate casualty of a regrettable incident—” 

The Cleaner’s voice abruptly halted as Prue’s wild gaze fixed on him. 

“Wait, are you saying that Piper will still be—?” she croaked. “I thought you just said you were reversing it all!” 

“We have no power to truly change the past,” the Cleaner said, regretfully. “The most we can do is . . . erase the memory.” 

“No.” Prue shook her head. “No, because if Piper’s . . . then there’s no more Power of Three.” 

“I’m sorry; there’s nothing else we can do,” said the Cleaner. 

“Death comes for everyone. You, of all people, should know that,” said the other, and then they were gone. The bullet that had been hanging in midair behind Prue dropped to the floor. 

“Nooo,” Prue whined, her eyes filling with tears again. Creeping forward, she picked up her sister’s hand, ignoring the fact that both were covered in blood. Slowly collapsing forward to press her forehead against her younger sister’s, Prue began to sob.

* * *

“Wait!” Cole Turner abruptly stuck a hand out, preventing his companions from continuing. “Something just changed.” 

“What?” Phoebe Halliwell asked anxiously. She needed to get back. If it was true that Piper was . . . gone – and Leo had come back absolutely wrecked – then Prue would need her. 

Cole frowned. “I don’t know, but my sense of the Source has suddenly faded. He’s not here anymore.” 

“What could draw him away now?” Phoebe wondered. 

“The level of alert just dropped, too,” Cole added. He stuck his head around the corner they’d been approaching. “I can’t sense any demons there. We’d better surface while we have the chance.” 

“Okay. Take me to Piper,” Phoebe ordered, gripping his arm tightly. 

“Are you sure that’s wise?” asked Cole, dubiously. “Leo said they were at the hospital before, and if everyone up there knows you’re witches . . .” 

“I have to see Piper,” insisted Phoebe, her voice wobbling. “And Prue will need me.” 

Cole sighed in defeat. “Fine,” he agreed, “but we’ll shimmer to the hospital roof and check things out, first.” 

“Okay, great, let’s go!” said Phoebe, tightening her grip on Cole’s arm. She looked up when he hesitated. “What is it?” she asked. 

“I think I’d better take Leo, too,” said Cole. 

Phoebe turned to look at her brother-in-law, and winced. Leo did not look good. He seemed to have given up any awareness of his surroundings, his eyes red-rimmed and tears steadily rolling down his cheeks. 

Her heart aching, Phoebe reached over and slipped her other arm around one of Leo’s. She nodded, and held on tight as Cole shimmered them all away.

* * *

Prue didn’t look up as out of the corner of her eye she saw the beginnings of a shimmer. It didn’t matter if a demon had found her – the Power of Three was gone, _Piper_ was gone, she’d completely failed her little sister . . . 

A demon did emerge from the shimmer, but there were two other people with him, and he wasn’t one she had to worry about. 

Not regarding attacks, at least. 

“Prue,” said Phoebe, her voice cracking as she took in the scene. 

“I don’t know what happened,” Prue said, not moving her gaze from Piper. “One second we were talking and the next . . . And they wouldn’t move, they were shouting and asking questions and nobody would _move_ . . .” 

“Oh, honey.” Phoebe let go of Cole and Leo and hurried over to wrap her arms around Prue. 

“I couldn’t save her,” Prue continued, her voice cracking. “It should have been me.” 

“Don’t you dare say that!” Phoebe ordered. “Losing you would have been just as devastating.” 

“Uh, not to interrupt the moment,” Cole said, “but why aren’t we surrounded right now? I thought you guys had been exposed.” 

“Later, Cole, okay?” Phoebe turned back to her sister. “Prue, where’s Dr. Griffiths?” 

Prue raised a blank gaze to meet Phoebe’s. “Dr. Griffiths?” she repeated, as if she’d never heard the name before. 

“Yeah, Dr. Griffiths. Our innocent?” Phoebe reminded her. “Where is he? We need to keep an eye on him in case Shax comes back.” 

Prue shook her head, lifting a hand to wipe her face, ignoring the smears of blood this left. “Shax is gone,” she said. “Piper and I vanquished him. We had to do it in public.” 

Phoebe winced, but she was relieved that at least one problem had been solved. She wasn’t entirely certain that she and Prue alone could have managed the vanquish, especially now.


	10. Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry speaks with Dumbledore at the ghostly King's Cross, but when it comes time to return to his body, someone's beaten him to it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics from chapter 35 "King's Cross", from Deathly Hallows.

_“Do not pity the dead, Harry. Pity the living, and, above all, those who live without love. By returning, you may ensure that fewer souls are maimed, fewer families are torn apart. If that seems to you a worthy goal, then we say good-bye for the present.”_

_Harry nodded and sighed. Leaving this place would not be nearly as hard as walking into the forest had been, but it was warm and light and peaceful here, and he knew that he was heading back to pain and the fear of more loss. He stood up, and Dumbledore did the same, and they looked for a long moment into each other’s faces._

Abruptly, something in the great expanse of whiteness caught Harry’s eye over Dumbledore’s shoulder. Blinking, he focused on it. His mouth fell open as he realised that it was a person. The person was dressed in what appeared to be a train conductor’s uniform, in a very dark shade of green, edged with alternating silver and gold threads. His face – Harry was assuming it was a _he_ – was shaded by the peak of the cap. He was holding a clipboard in one hand and looking urgently between it and where Dumbledore and Harry stood. 

Realising that he’d lost Harry’s attention, Dumbledore looked over his shoulder. There was no outward sign, but he seemed just as startled at the man’s appearance as Harry was. Noticing that they’d seen him, the man hurried forward. 

“Mr Potter?” he asked. “Mr H J Potter?” 

“Yes, that’s me,” Harry said. 

“Please, sir, come this way,” the man requested, using his clipboard to point to where the waiting room would have been if they were actually in King’s Cross station. Just as the chairs they had been sitting on had appeared, so Harry suddenly realised there _was_ actually a room there, as if it had always been there and he just hadn’t seen it. With a puzzled look at Dumbledore, Harry allowed the man to urge him forwards. 

The waiting room was a dull grey inside, reminding Harry of when a thunderstorm was approaching. Everything shone, from the walls, to the unfocused posters dotted around the room, to the metal legs of the benches, but it didn’t cast light the way the main room did. 

“What is this about?” Dumbledore asked. 

“Please, sir, have a seat,” the man said. Harry picked a bench close to the door, but Dumbledore remained standing. The man adjusted his cap nervously, and checked his clipboard again. “I’m afraid, sir, there’s been a bit of a . . . hitch, in the system.” 

“A hitch?” Harry frowned at him. “What sort of hitch? And what system?” 

“Ah, well, you were met here by Mr Dumbledore, correct? And you were offered the choice, to either return to your old life, or go on . . .” The man’s voice trailed off. 

“Yes, that’s what happened,” Harry said, slowly. He was beginning to get a sinking feeling. “What’s going on?” 

The official – who was starting to remind Harry of Cornelius Fudge, and not in a good way – cleared his throat several times and directed his gaze to his clipboard as though it could speak for him. “Obviously, your arrival was a very big deal, and a lot of our . . . uh, clients have been discussing it. Unfortunately, a new arrival overheard and got very . . . um . . . _heated_ about it. Instead of waiting his turn, he somehow slipped through and . . . well . . . returned to your body,” he finished in a quiet mutter. 

Harry blinked at him. Then shook his head and blinked again. Dumbledore was frowning at the official. “Are you saying that there’s somebody else running around in Harry’s body right now?” he demanded. 

“Ah, yes, sir, I’m afraid so.” The official rubbed nervously at the back of his neck. “We are trying our best to fix this, sir, but unfortunately, unless the invading presence is evicted from the living side, or leaves it willingly, then I’m sorry to say that there isn’t much we can do.” 

“Who is it?” Harry asked. “Who’s making people think it’s me?” He felt numb. He could think of several people that would just love to make mischief in his life and get him into trouble. At least Voldemort wasn’t on the list – yet. 

“Ah, it’s—” said the official, the end of the sentence trailing off into an even quieter mumble that Harry didn’t hear at all. 

“I’m sorry, who did you say?” Dumbledore asked. 

The official winced. “Severus Snape,” he admitted in a whisper. 

There was silence for several minutes. 

“You’re telling me that _Professor Snape_ is out there, running around and pretending to be me?!” Harry screeched, shooting to his feet. The official cringed and hurriedly stepped backwards. 

“I’m sorry, sir, really, we’re doing all we can,” he bleated. “But unless Mr Snape agrees to leave willingly, then we can’t force him out. I’m sorry!” With that, he seemed to lose his nerve completely, as he turned and bolted for the door, twisting around it and disappearing before Harry or Dumbledore could make a move to stop him. 

Harry sank back onto the bench and closed his eyes in despair. “I’m doomed,” he said quietly. 

“Now, now, Harry, chin up,” Dumbledore said, briskly. “There must be a way to convince Severus to leave your body willingly. I’m sure once we discover _why_ he did this—” 

“Because he likes making my life a living Hell?” Harry asked. Would anyone be able to tell the difference? Or would they all just think it was the result of surviving yet another Killing Curse? At that thought, another idea occurred to him. “Oh, no!” 

“What is it, my boy?” Dumbledore peered at him in concern. “What have you thought of?” 

“The Wand,” Harry said. “The Elder Wand.” 

“Mr Malfoy is the master,” Dumbledore began. “We must just hope that Severus can convince him to kill—” 

“No, Professor, he isn’t,” Harry interrupted. “Draco _was_ its master, but when they held us at Malfoy Manor, I Disarmed him – the Wand belongs to _me_ now. But will it still consider me its’ master if it isn’t really _me_ in there?” 

There was a pause, and then Dumbledore sank down onto the neighbouring bench, and said two words that Harry had never heard him say before, and dearly hoped he would never say again. 

“Oh, dear.”

* * *

Several minutes later, they were still sitting in the ghostly waiting room, unable to come up with a way of getting Snape to willingly leave Harry’s body. With no idea _why_ he’d taken it over in the first place, they couldn’t offer a good reason for him to come back to his afterlife. 

“It’s no good,” Harry said, finally. “I’ll have to go and talk to him.” 

Dumbledore looked at him. “Perhaps that would be best,” he agreed. “I’m sure Severus has a very good reason—” he ignored Harry’s incredulous look “—perhaps some unfinished business, and as soon as it’s done, he’ll relinquish your body back to you.” 

“Are we talking about the same Professor Snape here?” Harry asked, doubtfully. “Tall, dark stringy hair, large nose, completely hates me . . . ?” 

“Nonsense!” Dumbledore said. “Severus doesn’t _hate_ you, my boy. He just . . . has trouble seeing past James.” 

Harry did not find this comforting in the least. Considering that James Potter had been dead for sixteen years, then surely Snape could have grown up and gotten past old grudges by now. Deciding he’d sort out a plan of action once he was close to his body and could see what was going on, he got to his feet. 

“Well, I’d better get going, see what’s going on,” he said, firmly. “I don’t know if I’ll see you again, so goodbye, Professor.” 

“I’m sure it will be many years from now before we meet again,” replied Dumbledore, smiling benevolently at Harry. “Good luck and farewell, my boy.” 

Harry strode to the waiting room door and through it onto the platform. The Headmaster remained sitting on the bench, smiling faintly to himself. Several seconds later, Harry sheepishly poked his head back into the room. “Uhh, how do I get out of here?” he asked. 

“Perhaps you might try the turnstiles at the entrance to the platforms?” Dumbledore suggested gently. 

With an embarrassed smile, Harry retreated from the room again, and hurriedly made his way down the long white platform.

* * *

He materialised in the middle of what appeared to be chaos. Battle raged around him. A bright green spell light suddenly appeared _through_ his chest, and Harry shrieked and flung himself desperately to the side, before realising that technically right now, he was dead, and the spell had had no effect on him. 

Shaking his head, Harry scanned the crowd for his own messy black hair. Night was drawing in, but the area in front of Hogwarts was intermittently lit up by the spells flying back and forth. Unfortunately, this made it extremely hard for him to identify _anyone_. Harry gave an aggravated huff and _wished_ he could find himself . . . and in the blink of an eye, he found himself standing in the Entrance of Hogwarts. 

Various members of the DA and of the Order were battling Death Eaters. Giants were still attempting to breech the castle, and masonry was falling everywhere. A suit of armour fell through Harry with a rattling crash. The pops and whistles of the various spells – and also a few of Fred and George’s products, if Harry wasn’t mistaken – echoed off the stone walls. 

Looking around, Harry couldn’t see himself, but he could feel something pulling at him somewhere to his left. Even as he looked in that direction, a Death Eater that appeared to have hidden themselves for a moment suddenly stiffened and toppled over to the floor. 

_That git!_ Harry thought, indignantly. _He’s using my invisibility cloak!_ Annoyed, he strode towards the little alcove, only to realise once he’d reached it that Snape had moved again. 

“Professor Snape!” he called. “We really need to talk. You’re not supposed to be here!” 

There was no answer, so Harry followed the tugging sensation into the Great Hall, watching as various Death Eaters were stunned, petrified or otherwise taken down by seemingly nothing. 

He was so absorbed in watching what might happen next that he was taken completely off-guard when he suddenly hit something solid in front of him, and ricocheted off, landing heavily on the floor. 

“What the . . . ?” he muttered, looking up to see nothing but thin air in front of him, even if that air was criss-crossed by all manner of different spell lights. 

“Potter!” he heard his own voice hiss venomously from somewhere nearby. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be dead! Shouldn’t you be off skipping joyfully with your parents and that dogfather of yours?” 

“You’re the one who stole a body – _my_ body, by the way!” Harry protested, indignantly, then shook his head as he clambered to his feet. It was beyond strange to hear his own voice using Professor Snape’s tone. “Now give it back! Uh, please,” he added as an afterthought. The professor had to leave willingly, after all. 

“Not until I finish what I came here to do,” Snape growled at him. “Useless boy, couldn’t even finish the job you were Prophesied to do.” 

“Hey, and just who was it that gave me the memory saying I had to die before Voldemort could be killed?” Harry answered, pointedly. 

“Well, it wasn’t like I expected you to actually _listen_ to me!” Snape exclaimed, sounding very exasperated. A flash of orange spell-light shot towards them from somewhere across the room. Considering it carried on to splash against the nearby wall, eating into the stone with a hiss, Harry presumed Snape had ducked it. 

“So what was the point in giving me those memories if you didn’t think I’d act on them?” Harry asked, curiously. His only answer, however, was silence, and he realised that Snape had moved again. With a grunt of annoyance, Harry looked around for Voldemort. No matter where Snape had gotten to at the moment, eventually he’d end up wherever the Dark Lord was. 

It was just as chaotic inside the castle as it had been outside. Death Eaters seemed to be everywhere, most of them without their concealing masks and hoods, and battling frantically against members of the Order or the remaining students. Harry caught a glimpse of George Weasley, his face twisted in unrecognisable rage, sending curse after curse at various people. Harry could understand – George had lost his twin, the other half of himself. Frankly, Harry wouldn’t have been surprised to find him curled up in a corner somewhere, completely insane.


	11. Harry Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> StrugglingWriter!Harry Potter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three guesses as to what inspired this one - and the first two don't count :P

“I can’t believe it. This is ridiculous! Why _now_ , of all times?!” He flung his hands into the air, then threw his quill away from himself, and when that failed to either provide inspiration or relieve frustration, he swept the over-large pile of blank parchment from the desk to scatter all over the floor. 

Harry Potter, successful ghost-writer, uncelebrated author of hundreds of books currently lining the shelves at Flourish and Blott’s, with his pick of what to write next – he’d even been offered a contract to write a biography under the name of Rita Skeeter; of course, he’d turned _that_ down faster than catching a snitch – had writer’s block. 

He just didn’t understand it. He’d managed to successfully write books about Transfigurations, Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, plus the Dark Arts that were perhaps not-so-Dark, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes – neither of which he’d ever learnt himself – Potions, and even History of Magic. He’d had to write _that_ book three times because he kept learning new things that he thought should be included. History of Magic was a lot more interesting when it covered more topics than the ever-lasting Goblin Rebellions. 

So why was _Divination_ , of all subjects, giving him such a hard time? He’d made up plenty of things back in school for Trelawney. 

Grumbling to himself, Harry decided that maybe being back at Hogwarts would kick his muse back into gear.

* * *

The portrait of Severus Snape had no idea who had painted him, but he wished dearly that he had the ability to go and hex the stupid cretin. The artist had either not known him at all, or had decided to take artistic liberties with his subject. 

Sitting on the side table next to the chair he was sat in was a pair of black, wire-rimmed glasses. 

Snape glared at them, as if hoping his gaze was hot enough to melt the paint of them off the canvas. As if it wasn’t bad enough some idiot thought he was short-sighted enough – or old enough – to need glasses, they’d also gone and painted a pair that were hideously reminiscent of both James and Harry Potter’s glasses. Snape did _not_ need that reminder perched on his nose. 

However, he had fairly shortly discovered that wearing the glasses apparently gave people the impression that he was “hard at work, studying” whatever he happened to be reading – the first time it had happened, he’d been reading a book about Russian potions that was actually written in Russian, when McGonagall had stalked into the Headmistress’ office raging about some student or other, seen him peering through the glasses at her over the top of the book, and had hastily backtracked out of the room, muttering apologies for disturbing him – and so whenever they spotted the glasses perched at the top of his nose, they all left him alone. 

Consequently, he had taken to wearing the glasses most of the time. Of course, he _did_ take them off for several hours a day, showing that he was in a generous, approachable mood, but was it his fault that those hours happened to be after midnight and before dawn? 

When the door to Minerva’s office burst open, allowing the entrance of the one brat Severus had hoped never to see again, he shot a glance at the glasses sitting on the table beside him, debating whether he could pretend to be engrossed in a book quickly enough to avoid conversation. Regretfully, he decided no, he couldn’t – not least of which because the brat had never followed the rules anyway. 

He couldn’t even feign sleep, as most of the other portraits in the room murmured greetings to Potter. Potter’s eyes scanned the walls, lingering first on Dumbledore’s portrait – which even from here, Severus could see was beaming merrily at Potter – and then travelling on to his own. 

“Professor Dumbledore. Professor Snape,” Potter said. 

“Harry, my boy!” Dumbledore enthused. “How nice to see you again! How’ve you been?” 

“I’ve been well, Professor,” Potter answered, stepping around the Headmistress’ desk to stand in front of the large, ornate frame. “I’m sorry I haven’t been to visit you; my job’s been keeping me pretty busy.” 

Severus sneered to himself. _Oh, yes, no doubt Potter’s legion of fans had been mobbing him non-stop._ He had no idea whether Potter had ever become the Auror he’d wanted to be, or whether he’d taken up full-time professional Quidditch instead, but he had no doubt that it was a very public job, whatever the brat had chosen. 

“Is it going well? Are you enjoying it?” Dumbledore was asking. 

“It’s going great – I love it,” Potter said. He sat down on the edge of the desk behind him, casually pushing a pile of papers gently out of his way. “The last 3 reached the top ten on the Bestseller’s List. The only problem is, I appear to have hit a snag with the latest one.” 

“I’m sure you’ll find a way forward, dear boy,” said Dumbledore, his eyes still managing to twinkle, even though they were only paint. He yawned widely. “So sorry, my boy,” he mumbled, his eyes drooping lower and lower. “Perhaps Severus could help . . .?” And he apparently drifted off to sleep, snoring loudly – and unconvincingly. 

“Barmy old coot,” Severus muttered. “ _FAKE_ old coot!” he added, more loudly. Dumbledore’s portrait twitched a shoulder, but stubbornly continued to snore. Potter laughed as he moved around the desk again to where Severus’ portrait remained hidden in the shadows. “Whatever it is you’re doing, Potter, I can _not_ help you,” Severus added, witheringly. 

“Oh, I know that, Professor,” Potter said, still smiling. “It’s a Divination problem.” 

“That load of rubbish?!” spluttered Severus. 

“I’m supposed to be writing a book about it,” Potter explained. “But my muse has apparently gone on a tea-break, so I’m stuck.” 

“Here’s a bit of advice,” Severus suggested. “Leave the nonsense to the quacks!”

* * *

A week later, Harry’s book had advanced by a mere paragraph. His hair looked more like a bird’s nest than ever as he continually tugged on it in frustration. Nothing he wrote made any sense whatsoever. It was almost as bad as listening to Trelawney had been. His deadline for the first three chapters was approaching faster than a snitch, and Harry had a grand total of one paragraph to show for it. His publisher would not be pleased. 

With a deep sigh, he gathered his notes together and stood. Perhaps another visit to Hogwarts was in order. Perhaps he should even – and he shuddered at the very thought of it – sit in on a Divination class. Surely Trelawney would have gotten over her fixation about predicting his death by now.


	12. Original work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a story that I was writing for a competition, way back in 2010. I didn't get any further than this. Just for clarity, the characters are supposed to be centaur-like creatures, but with the body of scorpions, instead of horses, and the tail of a lion.

**The Blood of Reshervic**

The blood-red sky was darkening to black by the time Recknor stopped work. He stretched his arms upwards and his front legs outward, arching his back. He had been digging rocks out of the fields all day, and the result stretched away in front of him: smooth soil that was a clear, deep blue. Tomorrow, he could start planting the tubers, the pink vegetables that were so vital to an Aurachor’s diet. Recknor was the only EarthLord for three days travel, so his tubers, bigger and more nourishing than anyone else’s, were always in demand. He and his LifeSoul, Kerrtarvic, would never be rich, but they didn’t struggle to make ends meet, either.

He started towards the hottel that was their current home. They had several good-sized hottels spread over their land, and they moved every few weeks, making sure that each hottel was aired out and any repairs done, as well as working the land. They had moved into this hottel two weeks previously, and it was one of the smallest they owned. Kerrtarvic often called it their love-hive.

At even the thought of the privacy it offered, Recknor’s tail twitched, and the casing of the bulb at the end increased in sensitivity, so that the merest brush of air caused him to shiver in delight. Recknor increased his speed, scuttling over the now rock-free fields. He was eager to get home and twine tails with Kerrtarvic.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be. Recknor slid to a halt as he caught sight of the hottel, blazing with light. He muttered a harsh curse under his breath. They had visitors. There went his plans for the evening. His tail drooped as he started moving again, more slowly this time. Why hadn’t Kerrtarvic buzzed him? Maybe she’d been too busy settling the visitors, he thought. Kerrtarvic was an accomplished HouseMistress, but this particular hottel only had four chambers.

As it turned out, though, Kerrtarvic hadn’t settled anybody.

The problem, it seemed, was that one of the visitors was a HouseLady. Normally, Kerrtarvic would have deferred to the higher rank, but this was her home and in it, nobody ranked higher.

The trouble was that the HouseLady was apparently having problems subduing her instincts. She stood in the hall, eyes closed, hands and tail twitching as she tried to keep herself from moving items, checking for dust and assigning rooms.

Kerrtarvic stood in the archway to the main chamber, hands clasped together, obviously trying not to aggravate the HouseLady any further.

Recknor looked at the other visitors who were clustered near the kitchen archway. There were four of them, two male and two female. No, Recknor realised as his vision caught movement behind him, there were three males. And all of them had different Talents, he further realised with a frown. How very strange. He would have expected a HouseLady to travel with an entourage of HouseSlaves and Apprentices, and maybe a Keeper or two. Although all five Aurachors were Apprentices, not one of them was a House Talent.

Feeling distinctly uneasy, and not quite sure why, Recknor moved to greet Kerrtarvic, their tails rubbing briefly against each other.

<They arrived moments before you did,> Kerrtarvic buzzed to him, softly. <I didn’t hear or see or even feel them approach. They just appeared from nowhere.>

Recknor frowned again. He hadn’t felt them either, and he should have, at the very least, felt the Lady.

At last the Lady let out a sigh and relaxed.

<My apologies,> she buzzed. Recknor winced at her strident tone. <It has been long since I was in a hottel other than my own.>

<That’s understandable,> Kerrtarvic replied. <I’ll show you to your chambers now.>

<No need,> the Lady informed her. <We are capable of sorting ourselves.> Without giving them a chance to reply, or protest, she turned and preceded her Apprentices towards the chambers at the back of the hottel. Recknor and Kerrtarvic looked at each other.

<I can see problems forming,> Recknor muttered. <Will you be able to manage?>

<I hope so,> replied Kerrtarvic. <She’s very brusque, but this is my hottel, not hers.>

The rattle of a throat clearing made them turn towards the entrance. One of the Apprentices stood there.

<Lady Ressharne sent me to give you her apologies again,> he said. <As she said, it has been a long while since she has had to speak to anyone other than her people. It seems she needs to relearn the necessary skills.> And with that, he turned and walked back towards the chambers where they were staying.

<Looks like the Lady isn’t the only one who needs to relearn their people skills,> Kerrtarvic said softly.

<No,> Recknor agreed. He frowned after the departed Apprentice. <He felt like a TimeApprentice. Why does a HouseLady have a TimeApprentice? Or any Apprentice that isn’t a House Talent, for that matter?>

Kerrtarvic shrugged. <I don’t know,> she said. <With six extra people to feed, I’d better go and make some more food for us all.>

Recknor watched her disappear outside to the cooking pit, then went to make up a bed for them in the main chamber. He didn’t like the situation at all, but wasn’t sure exactly why. He just hoped that the Lady and her entourage wouldn’t be staying with them for long.

* * *

Three mornings later, Recknor shot up from the floor of the main chamber out of a deep sleep, a scream of agony tearing from his throat as a burst of unbearable pain went through his body. Beside him, Kerrtarvic jolted awake.

<What? What’s the matter? What’s happening?> she asked urgently. She pressed a hand to Recknor’s shoulder, then quickly removed it with a quick buzz of pain. <Recknor, you’re burning up! What’s wrong?> Kerrtarvic glanced quickly at the chamber entrance. Recknor hadn’t been quiet, but it seemed that their guests still slept.

<The TimeApprentice! He’s doing something . . . no, he _tried_ to do something, but it didn’t work, so he put everything back, > Recknor panted. Earth Talents never reacted well around Time Talents. No matter what the Time Talent changed, the Earth always felt everything. It made it extremely difficult to adjust the reality of an Earth Talent, and as such Earth Talents were highly valued as bodyguards, for they always knew when something changed.

<What would he be doing?> Kerrtarvic wondered. <And at this time of the day?>

<I don’t know, but—> Recknor’s voice abruptly cut off as another agonised scream was drawn from him. His body arched upwards as a brutal spasm shook him. Kerrtarvic buzzed with anxiety, her hands hovering above her LifeSoul, not daring to touch him while he was in such pain. Finally, Recknor’s body relaxed, and he slumped back onto the bed, panting even harder than before.

<He tried again?> Kerrtarvic guessed. She gently brushed back Recknor’s hair from his face.

<Yes,> Recknor agreed, frowning, <but this time the other Apprentices were helping him.>

<Talents don’t cross over, you know that,> Kerrtarvic pointed out.

<I know, but they were definitely helping him . . . not that it actually helped,> Recknor said. As no new bolt of pain went through him, Recknor finally relaxed back onto the bedding. <Now that they’ve all tried and failed,> he buzzed softly as Kerrtarvic settled back down beside him, <let’s hope that they won’t try again.>

* * *

Three weeks later, the HouseLady and her entourage were still in residence, Kerrtarvic was getting anxious to be on their way to their next hottel, and Recknor had taken to sleeping outside so that he didn’t disturb Kerrtarvic when he woke screaming each night.

<Why haven’t they departed yet?> Kerrtarvic fretted one evening, as she joined Recknor who was seated beside the warm cooking pit. <Surely the Lady must need to care for her own hottels?>

<Their Talents don’t seem to work like they should,> Recknor said, softly, glancing over his shoulder. He indicated the group of three-legged animals that were in a holding pen a little way from the hottel. <One of the rocs got into trouble a few days ago. She was in trouble for a while before anyone noticed, and then two BeastMasters buzzed me at the same time as the earth told me.> Recknor frowned. <The thing is, one of those Apprentices is a Beast Talent. They would have known there was something wrong long before anybody else did, but she did nothing.>

<She just left it there?> Kerrtarvic asked, horrified. Recknor nodded.


	13. Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fantastic Beasts wing!creature!fic

The thing that gave the imposter away was the fact that he’d removed his coat.

* * *

Centuries ago, a wizard by the name of Scamander had somehow mingled his bloodline with that of some sort of avian magical creature. No-one was quite sure how he’d done it as the records were lost to the mists of time, but ever since then, every male Scamander developed avian traits.

The head of the current Scamander family had feathers instead of hair. His wife liked to say that she hadn’t really had a choice in marrying him, because nobody else would have come close to her love for feathered creatures.

Their eldest son, Theseus, had feet that were more bird than human, with only three toes and claws instead of nails.

Their youngest son, Newt, didn’t have any _visible_ traits, but his mannerisms were obvious to anyone knowledgeable enough.

* * *

One person who _became_ knowledgeable enough was a young boy by the name of Percival Graves. His family had come to England for a month’s holiday at the Hippogriff Reserve that Newt’s parents owned and ran. At eight years old, he naturally gravitated to seven-year-old Theseus and, by extension, four-year-old Newt. He soon learnt that Newt’s fidgeting and head tilting did not indicate shyness, but rather a potential sizing-up. It was at that point that he began calling Newt ‘Feathers’, explaining that the young boy kept acting as if his feathers had been ruffled.

Newt had been confused – after all, he didn’t _have_ feathers – but Theseus had burst out laughing, so Newt just shrugged, and the name stuck.

* * *

Unfortunately, in their last week there, a wild Hippogriff had been attracted to the area. Before anyone knew it was there, it savagely attacked Percival, who’d been on his way to meet Newt and Theseus.

Severely mauled and rapidly losing blood, there had been no time to either fetch a Healer, or get Percival to St. Mungo’s. With little other choice, Mr Scamander had transfused his own blood into Percival.

Nobody had realised just how strong the creature genes were in Scamander blood until barely three days later, when Percival began to develop wings.

The Graveses had been horrified, and whisked their son home to America where they taught him that his wings were hideous and unnatural, and should never be shown around decent folk.

As a result, Theseus informed Newt some years later, Percival kept his wings firmly strapped down most of the time, and never, _ever_ removed his specially-tailored coat whilst outside his well-warded home.

* * *

So when Newt was brought into an Interrogation Room with a Percival Graves dressed only in shirt-sleeves, he knew instantly that something was terribly wrong.

* * *

The first time, he’d only been in the room with Percival for a couple of minutes, and when the other man’s eyes skipped over him, Newt had told himself it was just because it had been so long since Percival had seen him.

The second time, when Newt’s usual mannerisms had come out so strongly and Percival didn’t say anything, Newt began to wonder if the other man had managed to make himself forget the entire experience, although he would have thought the physical wings would have made that difficult.


End file.
